I met Aaron in autumn 1977 when we were freshmen at Columbia College in Chicago. The Columbia College of 1977 bears little resemblance to the Columbia College of today. At the time, the school occupied two buildings in downtown Chicago. The first was at 600 S. Michigan Avenue and the second was at 72 E. 11th Street, both in what was then a very seedy section of the South Loop.

Describing the South Loop as seedy doesn’t do it justice. It was barren, depressed, rotting, forgotten, desolate. Van Buren Street was the distinct delineation between the bustling and busted sections. It didn’t matter how you got there – by bus, subway, or elevated train – you saw its unattractiveness immediately. A mix of vacant storefronts and taverns; an eyesore.

How did I end up at Columbia College? Being the oldest of three kids, with a father who barely finished high school and a mother who attended a couple semesters of junior college, it was expected that I would enroll in college the fall after high school graduation and then graduate after four years. It wasn’t open to discussion, negotiation or debate.

After being accepted to all three schools to which I applied; a decision was required. Two of the three schools were in other parts of the state – Peoria and Macomb, Illinois, respectively. I had never lived away from home, never even attended sleepaway camp. It’s unclear to whom the prospect of my moving into a dorm was more daunting – me or my parents. The fact that I intended to be a theater major, narrowed down my options.

Columbia College was not only considerably more affordable (my parents were paying) than the other two schools, but also had a theater department of modest repute. Columbia was a commuter school, meaning I could live at home (another money-saving opportunity). Sweetening the deal, my parents arranged for the purchase of a used car for me (still less than paying for dorm life). The used car situation benefited everyone. I could drive to school when public transportation was unreliable, as well as chauffeur my younger siblings around as needed.

This arrangement was, as it turns out, a lousy idea. For those unfamiliar with coded language, it’s best to say that often, the term “theater major” is another way of saying homosexual, gay, queer, faggot, sissy, pansy, swish, poofter, etc. Theater, which encompasses performance (acting, dancing, singing), as well as design (sets, costumes, make-up and hair), direction, production, and writing, is a breeding ground for various kinds of social and sexual escapades. Add to that the collegiate environment and, well, there you have it. In other words, I couldn’t wait to be with my people!

Of course, if you’re going to be a theater major, it helps not to be borderline painfully shy. With all the strong personalities that come with a freshman class of theater majors, it’s easy to fade into the background. By far the strongest personality belonged to Rolando, a spitfire of Mexican heritage from Chicago’s far South Side. He was loud, funny, caustic, smart and unapologetically gay. He came with his own entourage, something that wasn’t as prevalent then as it is today. What he lacked in height (he was maybe 5’5”) he made up for in volume. He was fashion-forward, often arriving at class with a hairstyle different from the previous day’s.

As luck (?) would have it, Rolando zeroed in on two of us from outside of his circle. The first was Aaron. How could he not? In many ways, Aaron was Rolando’s equal, but in a prettier package. It’s hard to determine what Aaron looked like prior to our meeting him – there are no before pictures of which I am aware. The Aaron who showed up on the first day of acting class was a sight to behold. Capped white teeth, deep-set dimples, a surgically altered nose, big and expressive brown eyes, perfect hair and shaped eyebrows, and muscles. Muscles!

Remember, this was 1977, before sculpted bodies were a thing, before gym culture had taken hold. Later we discovered that Aaron’s body was his meal ticket, but for anyone within touching range, it was meant to be caressed in the friendliest way possible. The body and redesigned face earned him an abundance of attention. Because of the way he looked and carried himself, he immediately came across as more mature than we were, but that didn’t stop him from being silly when necessary. You could still see the boy in him as he tried to figure out the man he was becoming.

Rolando attached himself to Aaron and then they set their sights on me. To say I was a formless lump of clay would be a compliment. My clothing was non-descript and ill-fitting. My dark blonde hair, parted in the middle and feathered, cried suburbia. I was hiding behind a beard, a fact that one of the acting teachers was kind enough to point out to me. In front of the whole class. That beard, with its color gradations, from dark brown at the neck to vivid red and rust as it moved up my chin and cheeks, earned unwanted interest in the stage make-up class where the instructor insisted on using me as an example.

Was it my blushing, my hesitant speech? Was that all Rolando and Aaron needed to come for me? Was I a project? A challenge? Was it under their guidance that I began to emerge from my shell?

Take the acting class improv scene with Aaron where I worked behind the counter of a sandwich shop, and he was the customer as an example. Aaron: “I’ll have a watercress sandwich.” Me: “Make it yourself.” That got a big laugh. It was a delicious drug.

We did more acting scenes together in class, the final scene in The Boys in the Band. We clicked. We spent time together before class, after class, between classes. We met Rolando for lunch at The Surf Restaurant at the corner of South Michigan Avenue and 11th Street. A new friendship was developing between the three of us. We became inseparable. Classmates referred to us as Charlie’s Angels.

Saying goodbye at the end of the day was becoming increasingly difficult. I didn’t want to leave their orbit. I was falling in love. Were they falling in love? With which one of us?

We lived for the stores on Wabash Avenue and State Street. Marshall Field, Carson’s, Wieboldt’s, Kroch’s and Brentano’s. Aaron bought me a copy of The Happy Hustler by Grant Tracy Saxon. I hid it in my backpack. Was he trying to tell me something? I bought him a copy of Babel by Patti Smith. I was trying to tell him I was losing interest in theater and wanted to write poetry.

I was an open book. I couldn’t stop revealing myself. I took them to my father’s store on Wells Street. I couldn’t wait to introduce him to my new friends. I saw parental disapproval register on his face.

Neither Aaron nor Rolando talked much about home. Rolando had two younger brothers and a younger sister. Aaron was vague. He lived in Berwyn. He was devoted to his mother. End of story. He was more forthcoming about his city life. He modeled. He had head shots, a portfolio. He waited tables at posh Crickets in the Tremont Hotel. He went to the gym, sometimes more than once a day. He loved movies. We saw Annie Hall together. He called me Alvy after that. In the days before VCRs and DVRs, movie theaters brought movies back to first-run theaters. He took me to see Mahogany.

Before long, the three of us extended the hours we spent together. They took me to my first gay disco, Alfie’s on Rush Street. We went dancing at Dingbat’s, The Bistro, Center Stage, Broadway Limited and Blinkers. We were still underage, sneaking into these places as 1977 bled into 1978.

We became lovers. First me and Aaron, then me and Rolando, then me and Aaron, again. When Aaron spent the night with me at my parents’ house in the summer of 1978, we had sex in the bunk beds in the bedroom I shared with my kid brother.

We lost an entire summer religiously attending the midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at The Biograph Theater on Saturdays. Aaron was Rocky, in case you couldn’t guess. I brought the supplies – decks of cards, rice, toast, etc. I took a horrible and degrading job as a towel-boy at a Chicago Health Club in the lower level of an office building on Franklin Street just so I could be closer to Aaron.

This wasn’t going to end well, and it didn’t. After a year and a half, I quit school before the second semester of my sophomore year. The reasons were numerous. Ultimately it came down to two things. The combination of living at home, along with the associated restrictions, and trying to come out, crossed with the realization that I wasn’t meant to be a theater major. To say my parents were devastated and ashamed is an understatement. Nevertheless, I promised to return to school after I was able to get a full-time job and make and save some real money. It was a quest for independence. Also, the promise of a return to school involved the long-delayed departure from my parents’ house. They acquiesced, especially if it meant that I would finish school and they could once again hold their heads high among family and friends.

In Chicago, in the interim between dropping out of Columbia in January 1979 and returning to school in the fall of 1980, I maintained relationships with Aaron and Rolando. We were friends now, without benefits. I met a man named John with whom I began a relationship. When I told John of my new plans, to continue my education at Emerson College in Boston where I had been accepted as a transfer student, he decided to join me in my move.

Around this time, Aaron met an affable man named Ken. Ken was an actor and singer. He was in Chicago as a member of the touring company of the Broadway musical They’re Playing Our Song. John and I liked Ken immediately. When Ken found out that I was moving to Boston to attend college in the fall, he mentioned that he too would be heading to Boston on the next stop of the national tour. We agreed to meet up in Boston.

A true test of a friendship’s endurance is when one friend moves away. Do they remain in contact or is the friendship over? Rolando, Aaron, and I stayed in touch, writing letters, and sending cards to each other. It was the time of deregulation (fucking Reagan) and Ma Bell was no longer the matriarch. New long-distance services sprang up, including MCI (we called it Makes Calling Impossible), and although there were limitations (calls made at certain hours were less expensive), I made use of the amenity, spending hours on the phone with them.

On a 1982 return trip to Chicago for a family function, I brought along a Boston friend. Fellow writing major Michelle had never been to Chicago. She was fun and funny (this was before she found God) and I enjoyed showing her around town. We did touristy things – Water Tower Place, the Art Institute, lunch at the Italian Village, the Picasso Statue and the Chagall Mosaic, Marshall Field’s. We hung out at Rolando’s Lakeview apartment with Aaron. We went dancing at La Cage. When I look at photos from that visit one thing is clear. I was still in love with Aaron. Yes, I was in a committed (although shaky) relationship with John for a couple of years. Yes, I lived a thousand miles away. Yes, you can read it in my eyes. My tentative smile.

Nothing up to that point could have prepared me for what came next. Less than a year later, as the date of my college graduation approached, calls from Aaron became more frequent. There were lots of questions about Boston. How much were rents? What was the job market like in food service? How was public transportation?

As far as I knew, Aaron had never lived anywhere but in the Chicago area. What could be driving this sudden interest in Boston, a city that was the opposite of Chicago in countless ways? Little by little, Aaron revealed that his current relationship, another in a series of which he was being kept by an older, financially successful man, was crumbling. He needed to get out of Chicago posthaste, move away from the life of luxury he’d been living at 400 W. Fullerton.
At that moment, my life in Boston was becoming increasingly tumultuous. John and I were consumed with looking for a new apartment. I was also about to begin the process of looking for full-time work following graduation.

Aaron was a touchy subject. John knew of our history. He didn’t trust Aaron, whom he claimed had hit on him when we still lived in Chicago. But John knew how special Aaron was to me and agreed to let him stay with us while he also looked for a place to live.

In mid-June, I went to Chicago for my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary party. Aaron arranged to be on the same flight from O’Hare as me when I returned to Boston. He understood that once we got back, John and I would be busy with packing for our move. He also knew that he didn’t have long to find his own apartment.

As luck would have it, our new landlord also owned a building around the corner from our new flat. Aaron, who didn’t know a soul in Boston aside from me and John, asked us if he could use us as references. John agreed and soon we were neighbors. We made a concerted effort to include Aaron in our busy social activities. But he never fit in with our friends, many of whom were other writers or artists. Yes, Aaron’s body was his canvas, the way in which he expressed himself. That left him with little to contribute to conversations. Regardless, John and I saw him regularly, alternating dinners at our apartments.

Despite not fitting into our social circle, Aaron was doing well for himself. He landed some modeling gigs. He went to auditions. He was waiting tables at a restaurant on Newbury Street. He told us a story about meeting a man at the Copley Flair card shop on Boylston Street. They hit it off and, in some strange turn of events, the man bought Aaron a Seiko watch (something of a status symbol at the time). Was there more involved than just a shared laugh at a humorous greeting card? Was he hustling? The next thing we knew he’s going to “the Cod” (his words) with another new male acquaintance.

Months passed. Then came the heated phone call from the landlord. Aaron was in arrears with his rent payments. Seeing as how he used us as a reference, the landlord wanted us to intercede, put the screws to Aaron.

John was furious. After we got off the phone with the landlord, we went around the corner and rang Aaron’s doorbell. He buzzed us in, all smiles until he saw our expressions of rage. The confrontation was loud, hostile, and brief. We told him the landlord was taking legal action. We told him he betrayed our trust, sullied our good names. We severed ties, and while it seems hard to believe in a city as small as Boston, and a neighborhood as close-knit as the North End, I never ran into him again during the time I lived there before moving to DC to go to grad school in the summer of 1985.

There were, however, Aaron sightings aplenty in Chicago. Friends and mutual acquaintances called regularly to report seeing him at this or that club or restaurant. At the Belmont Rocks or Oak Street Beach. With this or that bejeweled older man.

I moved back to Boston in February 1988 to be with John, to give our tenuous relationship another chance. In early June, while walking with John to the Boston Public Library in Copley Square where I was one of the featured poets at a Pride reading, we bumped into Aaron near the intersection of Cambridge Street and Charles Street. I initially stage-whispered to John to keep walking, to not acknowledge Aaron. But he called our names as we were getting closer, as we were about to pass.

We were overly cordial, as if all had been forgiven (which it hadn’t). He gave the distinct impression of being happy to see us. I cringed when he asked, “Are you here on holiday?” Such a Boston-ism spilling forth from the mouth of a Berwyn boy was worth a laugh, which I stifled. I hesitated to mention that I had moved back to Boston, but John answered for me. We cut the niceties short as we had somewhere to be. Wisely, none of us suggested that we get together for a drink or a meal.

Less than a year later, in early 1989, John and I moved back to Chicago. John received a job offer too good to pass up. Even though it meant leaving my favorite city, I relocated with him. The city had changed considerably in the more than eight years since I’d moved away. There were new neighborhoods – what’s Bucktown? We found an apartment on Melrose, just east of Southport. At that time, it was an affordable area in mid-transition.

If there was one good thing that came from being in Chicago in 1989, it was that I had the chance to say goodbye to Rolando. His cousin Olga called early one Saturday morning in late May to tell me that he was in a coma in the AIDS ward at Saint Joseph’s Hospital. Everyone was in shock as he hadn’t revealed his health situation to a soul. I rushed over to the hospital and held his hand, kissed his fevered forehead one last time. Other mutual friends, such as DeDe and Anita, that I hadn’t seen in years, were also in the waiting room. We hugged each other and cried. At the wake, a few days later, Aaron made an appearance, but he kept his distance. Was Aaron back in Chicago now? Or did he come in from Boston for the wake and funeral? These weren’t the kinds of questions that kept me up at night. However, the surprising answer did.

Less than a year after John and I moved into the apartment on Melrose, a friend of his called to say that a much larger apartment in a building closer to the lakefront had become available. John’s friend lived on the first floor of the building and told us it was a deal too good to pass up. We sublet our Melrose apartment and moved onto Margate Terrace in the Margate Park section of Uptown.

I had a job as a bank teller at a downtown bank in the Prudential Building on Randolph Street. One weekday morning on my way downtown on the southbound 146 Marine Drive express, the bus stopped near Weiss Hospital, less than a mile from where we lived, and Aaron boarded the bus.

I imagine that the look of shock that registered on his face mirrored my own. Even with the latest round of plastic surgery, he was immediately recognizable. He walked past where I was sitting and took a seat a few rows behind me. A few days later, we found ourselves on the same southbound bus again. This went on for a few months. We lived in the same fucking neighborhood!

Just as suddenly as Aaron had reappeared, he disappeared. To no one’s surprise, John and I broke up again, this time for good. I moved into a studio apartment on Winona Street. Then I met and fell in love with Rick. When my lease was up, I moved into Rick’s house in Andersonville. We began our life together which continues to this day.

In the process of planning our pre-Marriage Equality commitment ceremony in July 1994, Rick and I made some interesting discoveries. Near the top of the list was the non-existence of two grooms wedding-cake-toppers. Being the creative man that he is, Rick utilized a pair of groomsmen that he purchased from a Puerto Rican bakery in Humboldt Park. But the experience lit a spark in him. With commitment ceremonies becoming increasingly popular, we couldn’t be the only same-gender couple having this experience.

Rick began doing research. How many local bakeries would agree to make a cake for a pair of brides or grooms? What about caterers? Photographers? Florists? Wedding planners? Tuxedo rentals and bridal gowns?

Thus, over a frigid Valentine’s Day weekend in 1994, A Commitment to Love was launched. The first, as far as we knew, same-gender wedding fair in the country. Held upstairs of the Ann Sather Restaurant’s original location on Belmont, the response from vendors was overwhelmingly positive. Additionally, we couldn’t have predicted that the attendees would form a line outside of the restaurant that snaked west down the block and around the corner onto Sheffield.

I was given the responsibility of working the door. Taking the suggested donation (which was given to Horizons, a local LGBT community service agency), as well as directing vendors to their designated reserved location. It was there, in a cluster of cater-waiters passing out sample hors d’oeuvres, that I saw Aaron’s face for the first time in three years. We exchanged the same look of shocked recognition that we did when we had seen each other on the 146 bus and just like those previous times, we didn’t speak to each other.

That was the last time that I saw Aaron. More than 20 years later, I stumbled across his obituary online. True to his chameleon-like nature, which included subtracting a year from his age at every birthday (while the rest of us continued to age), changing his ethnic-sounding last name to something WASPIER, and continually altering his facial appearance, he also slightly tweaked the spelling of his first name. Nevertheless, it was him. The obit included both his original and adopted surname, as well as the name of his partner, his mother, and his western suburban birthplace. Perhaps the most shocking thing about the obituary was that he had died in 2005, years before I came upon his death notice.

Is there anything worse than not having closure? The sense of regret was overwhelming. The list of unanswered questions was seemingly endless. The loss, the sadness, the mystery. This is my obituary for Aaron.