Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Thirty-two

Osama dropped me at home and for some reason I thought of the day I moved in. Maybe glancing at the mailboxes reminded me of moving in, because I remember seeing my name on the mailbox the day I moved in and thought, Wow, I really live here. My mailbox was on the end next to a guy named Timothy White, who no longer lived here. As a matter of fact, he's no longer living.

The thing I remember most about that day was how lonely I felt. Really lonely. And for some reason, walking away from the cab and into the hallway had left me feeling the same.

I moved in about five years ago, with nothing more than my piano, which is always a pain in the ass when you're moving. Despite the piano, it's usually a pretty easy move.

I live near the lake, in area called Boy's Town. I didn't know it was called Boy's Town when I moved in. As a matter of fact, I don't think the boys knew it was called Boy's Town at that point either, but it's a great area. Parking sucks, but when you have no car, no need to worry.

The apartment was big, clean, and charming. Best of all, I could afford it. Although "I wasn't the best candidate," according to Chad, the landlord, a very "show-tune" kind of guy, I convinced him that, because I was a musician, I was able to get him show tickets and offered to entertain him and his friends every once in a while. Big mistake. He took me up on everything.

So what I thought I'd save on the apartment ended up costing me by having to buy scalped tickets to everything from Chicago to Les Miserables, to his favorite, Kiss of the Spider Woman (which he had to see six times).

Getting back to the sad part of moving day. It seemed to me that moving to a new place should hold some excitement—the feeling of a new opportunity, of starting something new—but the prevailing feeling I had was the "What am I doing with my life" feeling. Not that it was a new feeling, and that I haven't had it since, but with the neighborhood so quiet, the smell of fresh paint in the air, and the fact that my apartment was in dire need of a female's touch, I felt a bit lonely.

Unfortunately, I couldn't wallow in it too long, because Chad was at my door with Timothy, Jack, and stack of songbooks. I was being rather presumptuous, but I assumed one of these guys had to have some decorating experience, and if they didn't, they certainly had to know someone who did.

So I asked for advice and ended up playing show tunes until 3:30 in the morning, followed by breakfast at Jeri's Diner.

The boys were a load of fun, and I started hanging out with them when I was feeling lonely, mainly because they made me forget about my pathetic little problems.

Because he wasn't as swishy as Chad and Jack, and because it seemed we just had more to talk about than the others, I became very close to Timothy. He was smart and very funny, in a dry sort of way.

I began to think of Timothy as a friend, and it was at this point I wondered if I would be better off being gay. But I came to my senses a bit when Timothy asked me out several times and tried to kiss me at an Oscar party Chad hired me to play for. It scared the shit out of me.

I mean it was up there with the death anxiety. Not that death feels right, but this just felt so wrong. Like it was totally unnatural to me. It didn't make me like Timothy any less, it just made me want to be entirely clear about my position on men and women (that didn't sound right). He understood. Or at least he said he did. Whether he was kidding or not, I wasn't sure, but he'd always say that I just hadn't come out of the closet yet. Frankly it scared me, like he might know something I didn't about myself.

Unfortunately, Timothy got very sick with what that whole crowd was obsessed with being diagnosed with. From what I understand, Timothy had several other complications that were not normal for a person sick with AIDS, and he died rather quickly.