The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? by Kearns Michael

Author:Kearns, Michael [Kearns, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2012-08-23T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 36

I remember the sound of the doctor’s voice, confirming what I’d intuitively suspected. But hearing the words—“tested positive”—was like no bit of information I’d ever received. Instantaneously, like that moment in The Wizard of Oz, everything in my life went from black-and-white to Technicolor. And my altered perception of the world has never changed. I’m not suggesting Technicolor is always pretty; it can be too shadowy, too nuanced, too intense. But there were no more hues that contained logic or reason or simplicity or even sanity. Life pulsed with colors—wild, drunken, scary, gorgeous and, above all, infectious.

Like so many aspects of my unorthodox approaches to life, my relationship with Philip was not conventional. During the first year, we established a pattern that suited our individual personalities. We had no desire to cohabitate. His house in Studio City and the house I was renting in Glendale were, as they say in these parts, “freeway close.” In California, that translates to about twenty minutes of driving time. We spent one or two nights together, usually on the weekend, and usually went to dinner midweek. There were exceptions to our routine, of course—parties, benefits, memorials.

We spoke on the phone daily (sometimes several times) and had sex weekly (rarely more than once). We were monogamous. We referred to ourselves as lovers, rather than boyfriends, and we did love each other.

After Philip died, a good friend of mine admitted to me, “I was never really comfortable around Philip.”

I’ll never forget the look on her face when I said, “Neither was I.”

And it was true. Until the last two months of his life, I always felt like I was trying to win his attention. The relationship often felt like a job; I might get fired or quit if he didn’t live up to my expectations or I didn’t live up to his. Yet this dynamic was what energized the bond between us. We clearly had something to learn from each other in spite of our contradictory emotional makeups.

A trip to Paris was fabulous but not without repercussions. Forget the Eiffel Tower and the Sainte-Chapelle and Victor Hugo’s mansion; my favorite place in Paris was Père Lachaise, a cemetery where a host of artists had arrived at their final resting place. Hugo, in fact, said, “To be buried in Père Lachaise is like having mahogany furniture.”

We visited on All Saint’s Day (November 1), a national holiday in France. It was raining, enhancing the quixotic atmosphere. As we approached, carrying pastel-colored flowers we’d bought at the Metro Station, all you could see were dozens and dozens of umbrellas of every size, shape and color. The cemetery was packed, a full house, largely with adoring fans.

We found Isadora first. Then Oscar. And Proust—there was a young Asian boy delicately placing a single, blood-red rose on Proust’s headstone. Jim Morrison, Molière, Gertrude and Alice. The divine Sarah.

The most spectacular grave site, however, was that of the tragic songstress Edith Piaf. We heard her voice, emanating from a small but capable tape recorder, before we actually saw her patch of dirt.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.