Stevie was my guide through San Francisco’s Castro neighborhood into a new Gay existence. The Gay Castro was a place of big laughter, even bigger sex, camaraderie, and community. Living there in the late 1980s through the 90s was like living on an island where everyone was different, like me. A place where men loved men and women hugged each other in deep, impossibly long embraces, and then they moved in together. Living in the gay Castro then was like living through the great California Gold Rush. It was bustling, thriving, intoxicating, energetic, debauch, wild, and deadly dangerous. It was also full of whoring, so it was fun and liberating. Unlike in the Gold Rush of the 1840s, the promise of the Gay Castro was not abundant fortunes, but instead of finding a home, which is priceless, no, this is not an add for any credit card, thank you!
It was a place where we were all building a home for neglected outsiders. A shelter we could inhabit without fear of being rejected, persecuted, or ever evicted. A pad where we all had equal rights and footing and where ignorance and bigotry were checked at the door. Stevie, the self-appointed white trash fag from Modesto, gave me some of the first passwords. He put my name on the list and opened the door into a world I knew nothing about but wanted desperately to be a part of. So, of course, years later, when he was in dire need, suffering from an illness I didn’t understand but silently dreaded. When I could see he was trapped inside his little frame, a body unwilling to surrender, I took it upon myself to help him commit suicide.
The first time I heard Stevie say, “I’m a white trash fag from Modesto!” as he sat back on his heels, pursed his lips, and beamed with pride - was the first time I’d ever heard the term “white trash,” Slowly, the concept of - a sect of white people who weren’t nearly as affluent as the ones I’d known growing up with… a group who were perhaps a little worn, and most definitely (in Stevie's case) a people who were hella though, started to come into focus. Stevie was resilient beyond everything. This allowed me to connect with him, and I could see past his shortcomings most of the time. I had also never heard anyone call themselves a fag. The only time I’d ever heard that was when someone hurled it at someone else with venom and vitriol. Wait, do you mean you can call yourself the F-word and be proud of it? Oh, I get it. It’s like black people using the N-word but for gays. Novel, idea, I thought!
When Stevie described Modesto (a place I’ve never been) along with stories about his mean-spirited alcoholic father and all of his siblings, I always envisioned dust-filled roads, trailer parks, and a fiery little boy named Stevie Clute walking with a New York attitude and a swish that couldn’t and just wouldn’t stop. He swished the way a sassy female swishes. His attitude and fierceness defied anyone to say anything negative. For those who don’t know, a swish is the walk a sassy female (or female-identifying human) sometimes makes when they walk. It’s a walk that beckons attention. Think supermodel on a runway walk, but maybe less polished and more of everything.
Looking back, I now know a lot of people in and out of our gay community treated Stevie like he was a freak, and I think there was a part of him that enjoyed it. He was staking his place in a cruel and unwelcoming world. He was a little freak, and I mean that as a compliment. Nothing is more tedious and unworthy of any description than a “normal” person. I’ve always been drawn to those living on the edges because that’s where I grew up. I have always relished being an outsider, different, and maybe even weird. I know now that most of the memorable relationships in my life have been with very “challenging” people. I liked Stevie a lot; he was my first gay friend in this new Gay life, and I was glad to have him lead the way.
I didn’t know anything about my gayness. I didn’t think we had a rich history. I didn’t know I was a part of a long legacy of incredible people who had achieved great things. Back then, I knew nothing other than this budding sexual primal desire I’d had since I was a kid.
Since I was three or four, I always wanted to sit on my uncle's lap. So, when it came to gay life and all its nuances, well, I was as green as a greenhorn. So, Stevie, as an older gay, became my introduction to gay things, which included the good, the bad, and the hideous. I was glad to have him pull back the curtain to my newly discovered Oz. What does that even mean? “All things gay.” Well, let's break it down—gay life. When we think of Gay today (I love how it rhymes), at least for non-haters… we might think of gay as fancy, chic, fashionable, and maybe even fabulous. Stevie was none of those adjectives.
Stevie suffered from an ignorant, arrogant adolescence. If he were alive today, I bet he’d be a Trumper, but that shouldn’t matter because he was, first and foremost, like all of us, a human being. Loving challenging people is an opportunity for growth, and I like the challenge. Let me give you one small example of his baseness. Stevie was ignorant about the theater… I’d started acting in San Francisco. It was my learning years and a fantastic place to develop as an artist. The first time I invited him to a play I was doing, he said…
STEVIE
I’m not going to see a play. I’ve never seen one in my life, and I’m not about to start now!
See, ignorant. But he was also a straight shooter, so I just shrugged and continued. Unfortunately for Stevie, being forthright and a straight shooter wasn’t enough to battle the Aids Mercenaries. Oh yeah, those goddammed Aids Mercenaries! That’s what Stevie called them. Stevie told me to think about the battle with aids like a war. He had seen so many friends die. I was to think about the Aids Mercenaries as the enemy. See, the gay life Stevie and I and countless others cohabitated in the Castro was a life entrenched in a vicious battle with cut-through mercenaries that attacked all of us indiscriminately, anytime and anywhere. He told me that Aids didn't care who we were or how long we’d been fighting for a place on God's green earth. It didn’t matter what class or race we were. It didn’t care about our socio-economic background. It didn’t care what we did for work, if anything at all. And it certainly didn't care where we hailed from, how close or distant we were to our families and loved ones, or if we even had anyone who’d sit vigil by our bedsides as we lay dying. It didn’t care if we were fathers, brothers, sisters, mothers. Aids just didn’t give a fuck! Not only that, but the Aids Mercenaries crawled uninvited into our beds. In the throws of passion while in the arms of lovers, strangers, or, in my case, countless tricks and boyfriends, Aids reared its ugly head and sought out our vulnerabilities as it tried with all its might to get deep inside of us and take us down.
I was still 19 the night I met Stevie, by accident or faith, you choose. I was young and stupid, possessed with a feeling like I knew everything and nothing could take me down. So, I was cruising a parking lot (classy, I know) in front of a gay bar in San Jose, California. God, what a shitthole! Do you know the way to San Jose? Really?! How did that song ever make it anywhere? Who has ever wanted to go to San Jose? San Jose is L.A.'s sad, distant, and severely defective cousin. And certainly back then, it was even more homely and tragic, certainly for a gay. I guess nowadays, “tech has revitalized San Jose,” to which I say, “FABULOUS!” with as much sarcasm as my little fingers can type.
Anyway, I was sitting in my convertible Honda Prelude (top-up). Yes, I had turned my car into a convertible, classy, I know. It was an 87, maybe an 88, but not significant. I sat, eyes glued at the entrance to Renegade's Gay bar. I was petrified and exhilarated, waiting for someone, anyone, to come out and love on me. A friendly little queen approached me, stood by my passenger side window, and said he was going to the city, as in San Francisco, “This town is a joke!”. I agreed. He asked if I wanted to go. “Sure.” I’ve always been game for anything.
The little queen - and I can say that 'cause I’m a little queen too - said
LITTLE QUEEN
Cool. You wanna go to a bar or a video bar?”
I had no idea what that was, so I said…
CARLO
Video bar!
Less than an hour later, we walked into the Midnight Sun on 18th Street, less than a block away from the epicenter of 18th and Castro. And less than a few blocks away, where I’d end up living for nine years with Ruby, my first boyfriend and the biggest dealer in the Castro. I had many boyfriends, partners, boyfriends, and tricks.
See, since I was nine, when I would leave home alone when I was able to wander about unaccompanied, men have followed me around. I mean, no judgment here, but these guys were perverts. Only because, at that age, I was tiny and looked like a pre-pubescent child, which is good because that’s exactly what I was. I’ve always looked young cause I’ve always been petite. I’m 5’6 and was skinny before any semblance of muscles, so I looked very young. And yet, even at that age, I had already had years of experience having sex with strange men, and I very much sought it out. I was very much into the perverts—I guess…cause, like everybody else (yes, that includes you), I wanted to be loved, I wanted to be wanted.
I’m Latin… triple Latin, mostly of Italian descent, and I was raised in Latin America. Who cares, you say? Well, there’s something about Latins that's different from, say… Anglos. Stereotypes are not always negative; we should embrace them if they help illuminate who we are. We miss the whole point if we don’t know who we are. This is a gross generalization here, but white, frigid, northern types can be sexually repressed. It’s too cold to get naked. DUH! While hot-blooded Latins, especially those living in warm climates like Latin America, explore our sexuality at a younger age. We get naked all the time!
Anyway, back to the perverts. I had sex with them cause I knew no better. I didn’t realize I had any options whatsoever, like none at all. And while I grew up for a time in the South Bay, and Gay San Francisco was only miles away, to me, it might have been on another continent. I didn’t know it existed. I thought I was one in millions, so I took what came my way. So, yes, I slept with George Bush Senior (look him up) or his identical twin. I didn’t know! Gosh, I can feel the judgment through the screen! 🙂
So, on that faithful night when I walked into the Midnight Sun, the clouds parted alright. I lost my ride (the friendly queen) within seconds and worked my way into the throng of bodies. I was swimming in a sea of gays! And halfway decent-looking men surrounded me. Halfway decent, can you believe it!? Halfway decent was so far away from what I’d been used to. Smiles abounded. A lot of them. It was like being in a massive candy shop, with oodles and oodles of wrapped goodies everywhere. Every shape and color, so yummy! From chunky (I have always been partial to thick men) to tall and hairy, shorties, blonds, bald men, redheads, brunets, Asians, Mexicans, all American and Europeans, it was all so exciting. I had found my community quite by accident. I had discovered my tribe and with the laughter, the camaraderie, and the videos… I instantly understood Video Bar! - playing episodes of what Stevie would eventually introduce me to - a show called “Golden Girls.” I had found a new home that welcomed me in with open arms.
Of course, I was a kid and a great combination of butch and adorable, and dare I say, I was very cute, so I got a lot of attention, and I was ready for all of it. That very night, among the crowd cruising at me hard with a little glint of puck in his eyes and with his extra long eyelashes batting rapidly, was Stevie, my soon-to-be new white trash friend, and my first guide in learning all things gay… Part of the learning meant I had to study about Aids. I had to be schooled on death, wasting syndrome, young men walking around with canes, and people disappearing. If you had vanished from the public sphere, another way of saying it is if you were not going out to the bars and clubs back then, it often meant the mercenaries had taken you out permanently.
Years later, after becoming his friend, one day, out of the blue, I discovered Stevie had disappeared. He had been recently locked in an Aids ward at a local hospital. A locked Aids ward was very much what it sounded like. It was closed and locked, and none of the patients could leave, and certainly not Stevie.
He’d had a drug addiction for years. Crystal meth - this was the late 1980s, and meth - methamphetamine, Tina, Crystal, KK, whatever you called it was very much a part of the gay San Francisco lifestyle. I suspect Stevie had probably been doing crystal since the 70s. He was so tweaky that even when he was stone-cold sober, he moved and talked miles a second. I would snap at him if we went to the legendary Castro theatre to catch a classic movie. He wouldn’t shut up, let alone stop fidgeting, and he wasn’t even high! It was just like residual tweeker energy. I’d snap at him with whispered urgency.
CARLO
Shut the fuck up! I’m going to time you, okay?! I want one fucking minute of stillness. Just one minute!
So, he’d stop everything instantly, even his breathing, to show me his resolve… but before the minute was up, he’d say…
STEVIE
I can totally be quiet for a minute!
But see, he couldn’t make it even a minute. So, I learned time and time again to surrender to his firefly on crack energy. Stevie guided me to watch movies. He introduced me to Divine and John Waters. These icons of Gay Americana have influenced my artistic and creative life for decades, and it was Stevie who introduced me to them. He and I devoured the classic gay films that shaped so much of my life and taught me about Gayness.
Anyway, because of Stevie’s history with drugs, the hospital wouldn’t let him out. In the ward, he was surrounded by other gay men who were dying. These men walking about in their hospital robes, backsides open like Stevie's, were all entirely too young to be consumed and slowly murdered by this disease. Here’s the rub all of these men: they would, within weeks or months, die. Stevie wouldn't die. He was imprisoned there for more than two years.
At first, I’d visit him every week, then every other week, once a month, once every few months. I had a life, and while I did my best, I couldn’t do more. Unfortunately, he had no one else. I don’t think anyone in his family ever came to see him, not once, in two years. People were scared back then, and a lot thought that aids was some kind of punishment from above. Ignorance has caused more pain and suffering than any war in the history of humanity. Yes, I’m a historian, too! The only two people to visit Stevie were David and I.
David was a really lovely guy Stevie had hooked up with a little before he’d started to get sick. Sick enough that a friend who had visited Stevie called in the ambulance and said, “This person can no longer live alone…” I think he’d had an emergency. He soiled himself in front of this so-called friend. So the friend called them (the EMT and the popo man), and they forced Stevie out of his home in handcuffs and straight into the locked aids ward. I think it was a beleaguered city doing what it could to help. So here was Stevie in this place where he would eventually perish, but he wasn’t dying. His tiny little body was determined to fight this thing out no matter how long it took, and it wasn’t paying attention to the little man in the cockpit.
On visiting hours, I’d wheel him out of his room and into the TV and cigarette room down the hall, and we’d sit there with other guys. We’d all smoke (yes, in a hospital) and make small talk. From one visit to another, Stevie would say, “So and so, kicked the bucket.” “Yeah, Eli went to the other side.” “Roy had his mother and siblings here. You could hear them wail down the hallway. Some people are very dramatic!”. Everyone around him was dying, but not Stevie.
The staff there knew me by name, and they liked me. I convinced them that they should let me take him in his wheelchair down the street to the very top part of Golden Gate Park and then back again. They said yes, and that was nice. I’d torture him by pushing him down the hill fast. He loved it. In the park, we’d find a bench and sit like an old married couple—a couple who’d lost their desire or will to talk, to exist even, maybe. I’d sometimes just sit and say nothing, and more often than not, he’d start to lament.
STEVIE
It’s like this horrible nightmare, and I just don’t ever wake up from it.
Or
I was telling my dad on the phone how fucked it all is, and I started to cry, and he said: “Stop your whining! You sound like a little bitch!”
I’m glad I never met his dad. One time, out of quite desperation, I said
CARLO
Die already!
Without missing a beat said
STEVIE
I’m trying!
But his little spirit was unwilling to go peacefully. It would hang on to the bitter end. One crisp fall day, while sitting on the bench, I said.
CARLO
What if I get Ruby to help?
I had met Ruby less than a year after I’d snuck away from home in the South Bay and was being my gay Castro-loving self, living my life, finally. Ruby was the biggest dealer in the Castro, which is significant. Drugs have historically been a part of the gay (man’s) experience, and it was undoubtedly the truth for me and Stevie, as well as countless others. So, if I needed to get something to help Stevie commit suicide, Ruby would be the way. I asked Ruby, and of course, he told me I was an idiot for helping a little tweaker freak like Stevie and that I had to be super careful. I was scolded for all the things that could go wrong. The list was long and scary, including prison time for manslaughter. We’re talking anywhere from a few years to fifteen years. But I was determined to help my guide. Looking back, it wasn’t that I was being a hero; instead, I was being a stupid, impulsive kid with a friend who was hurting and wanted to help. Beyond any morality, it was not more complicated than me thinking that I was helping someone end their suffering because this is what friends do for each other, right?
There were a lot of instructions to follow while Ruby was a drug dealer, he was also a graduate of Stamford University in…wait for it… physics, so if anyone was going to be anal-retentive, it was he. So, the list of detailed instructions on how to commit suicide was long and thorough. Who knew? Apparently, if you're in a hospital and you take something to end it all, it could go very wrong, and then they’d know, maybe they’d suspect and pump your stomach, and then I would get in major trouble. So, we needed to make sure it looked like he died of natural causes from Aids.
Somehow, Ruby got liquid morphine. It was put into a Martinelli's Apple Juice - 10 fl oz bottle. Martinellis are apple juice containers. You know, they look like little glass apples. I’m sure Martinelli’s has never considered this for their marketing purposes.
🎵 Martinelli's Jingle 🎵(Imagine an upbeat, playful tone)
🎶 “Martinelli’s, oh yes, so sweet every day,An apple a day keeps the death away!But if you’re in a fix, got morphine to play,Disguise it with Martinelli’s—the sneaky way!” 🎶
Anyway, there was the juice, the crackers to settle Stevie's stomach, and various pills in multiple colors. The directions were indeed extensive for my pea brain.
By this time, I had a new boyfriend. I called him Happy because he always had this stupid, happy grin on his face. He was very hot, but he had a stupid grin. Anyway, Happy had just moved to Florida, and we planned on doing long distances as long as it lasted. I decided to take a flight to see him on Sunday night. So by the time Stevie did the deed, I’d have a solid alibi: “I was happy in my bed, with Happy!”
Sunday morning, I made the trip to the hospital. Inside my backpack in a brown paper bag were the ingredients for death, along with the instructions. I would have him commit the instructions to memory. Leave no trace behind! When I arrived, I was super friendly and charming with the nurses at the check-in desk. I walked into Stevie's room, grabbed the brown paper bag from my backpack, and opened his dresser's bottom drawer. I lifted whatever clothes were in there and showed the death bag underneath it all. I settled next to him and subtly said.
CARLO
I got you the things.
STEVIE
What things?
CARLO
The things… I’ll drop them off later. But I need you to know how to do it first.
I desperately needed him not to know the things were there until after I left for my safety and security. For the next hour or so, I tried to talk him through the detailed instructions.
CARLO
Drink the whole martinelly but first, make sure you’ve had all the crackers, then take the blue pills, then the white ones…
He just keeps getting confused, and I keep getting agitated. He wasn't getting it. After visiting hour was up, I told him I’d bring the things in the morning. I had to go. It would have to be enough. It would have to work. He would have to be ready. He was strong, intelligent, and brave, so he’d finally be done with all this hell. That night, I called him.
CARLO
It’s there…
I explained where I had left everything and told him that I loved him and that he knew what to do. By the time he did it, I’d be on my flight to Florida to be with Happy, and I’d have to be okay with never seeing Stevie again.
I’m packing for Florida a few hours later, thinking speedos or board shorts. My phone rings.
DAVID
Hey Carlo, what did you give Stevie?!
I felt the vile rise up into my throat. But I went into action. I had to employ my quick thinking, acting ability, and improvisation skills, and one of the tools I had learned from my mom - attack before attacked. It came easy to me because I was instantly angry at Stevie. How could he be so stupid to put me in danger? After everything I was doing for him. I played the indignant, appalled friend.
Imagine the following with rising, tempered rage.
CARLO
First of all, watch your mother fucking tone with me, you piece of shit! I don’t know what you’re asking, but I say - fuck you - to all of it! Now, What the fuck do you mean… “what did I give Stevie!?” I’m the only one who cares about him enough to see him more than anyone else! So I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about!
DAVID
Well, all I know is that he’s called his dad, sisters, brothers, and me, and he’s been telling us he loves us… He’s breaking down crying. He told his dad off, by the way. It’s like he’s making amends and saying goodbye. And I know that you saw him today…
CARLO
...Yeah, I saw him 'cause I’m a real friend! Unlike you. HOW FUCKING DARE YOU!
I didn’t know what to say or do, so I hung up.
Shit! I needed to go to the hospital and get the stuff back. If he went through with it now after he’d blown my cover - if he died… I’d be fucked, and while the idea of being in prison sounded kind of hot for a week or two, I like rough trade… anything longer was not part of my life vision. I got on my bike with an empty backpack and rode faster than I’d ever ridden. I pulled up to the sign-in desk and said something funny as I scribbled my name.
NURSE
Oh, sorry, the visiting time is over.
CARLO
I just want to say goodbye because I’m leaving town for a few months, eight months…please?
NURSE
Make it fast, please.
I walked quickly into his room. The door was wide open, and they had a straight shot from the signing desk… I don’t give a fuck. I can’t be bothered. I needed to act! I made a beeline for the drawer. I see the paper bag, and it goes in one fell swoop into my backpack. I went to Stevie’s bedside and said:
CARLO
You dumb, stupid, little, white trash cunt! It was here the whole time. I tried, but you fucked everything up, you ignorant…
STEVIE
…I knew it was here…
CARLO
…Yeah…oh, ok. Well… I don’t give a fuck. Now you're going to die, alone and slowly. Die slowly, you stupid piece of shit!
I know, harsh. I was scared. When I get scared, I get furious. I walked out with the instruments of death deep in my backpack and averted disaster.
The next few months were a blur. I had been cast in a touring production of the San Francisco Shakespeare Festival and was on the road for six months. On one of my trips home, David called and left a message:
DAVID
Hey Carlo, Stevie’s been transferred to a hospice in the Mission, you should probably go see him. if you want to see him again.
The following day, I rode to the Mission. It looked like a house converted to a home for the dying. The little Filipino woman briskly showed me through the house. Before I saw him, she said very much as a direction.
HOSPICE NURSE
You say goodbye, say goodbye.
There was a light caramel hue in the room. Stevie never lost his hair! He just kept coming like his hair. As a man in my 50s I’ve dealt with slow hair loss for three decades but there he was dying of Aids and crested with a full head of shoulder-length Jesus hair. His nails were long like Howard Hughes long. Had he no one to clip them for him? His skin was translucent white. He looked like crisp, white, starched sheets pulled hard over jagged bones.
I sat next to him for what felt like hours. I knew I would never see him again. He was non-responsive. Barely unintelligent mumbles. I made my peace. I apologized for my outburst the last time I’d seen him. I wanted to help, but I got very scared. He seemed to understand silently, at least, I hope he did.
It was time to go. I held his hand and said
CARLO
I love you, Stevie.
STEVIE
I love you, too.
Yup, my tough little friend pushed through the jumble of death rattles and gave me those four lovely words. It’s like he summoned that epic strength from somewhere and gave me that, teaching me that while we can’t choose our family, that’s just the random spin of a bottle by the universe - friends and friendship are love in action. I rode my bike home and shed some tears for my first gay friend.
The next day, David called and left a message:
DAVID
Hey, Carlo, Stevie passed this morning, I was with him, holding his hand. He thought I was you.
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