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He Pulled a Second Arrow from His Quiver

Don, just like me, was a fearless adventurer out on the path to meet his mate. We understood this in each other, one reason why we remained close. Our friendship started as one of my unwilling dates. Don hit on me at the Red Bull one night in 1975, but I snuck out and went to Faces. He followed me, pulled a second arrow from his quiver, and I yielded. I thought we were both about 27 when we drove away. Eventually, the truth came out. “Don!” I said, “I’m old enough to be your father!” Came the grinning reply, “I know.” Shortly thereafter I turned him loose, and he promptly found and settled down with another older guy.

But we had just clicked as friends. Debriefing our various romantic adventures over coffee became a once-a-week necessity. My mobile home kitchen table overlooked the lake behind the trailer park, and made a perfect setting for talking trash. It felt to me like Don was a younger gay brother. For one thing, we were both totally into music, something I have shared all of my life with my real but straight brother, Tom. For another, more ineffable thing, like me, Don just kind of crawled into his human relationships in order to explore every nook and cranny of connection. I liked that. I liked Don. Old and wise of every size was in his eyes.

If I had only met Don as a consequence of this gay life, it would have been worth it. He died from AIDS at age 31, happily married to Alston in Chicago, and he faced his death with incredible courage and joie de vivre.

Don was a gay song of life that I was lucky enough to overhear. I hope my song about him does justice to his memory. But I want this review to end on a musical note, so first, a concluding statement, then the concluding song.

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