REMEMBERING TIM

(originally posted on Facebook on Sept. 25, 2012)

Today would have been the 52nd birthday of a very dear friend of mine, Tim Leist. There are precious few people left in my life who remember Tim, or even knew me during that time period, for that matter, although many people hear me talk about Tim. The fact is, that for a period of my life, about 1979-1988, Tim and I were practically joined at the hip; he and I were practically inseparable and he had a profound influence on my life.
I first met Tim around 1979, when I was a senior in high school. Fresh-faced, 17, and just exploring the whole “gay scene”, Tim was dating a friend of mine named PJ, and the moment we were introduced it was like one of those “haven’t we met before? I swear I know you” moments; but of course, at 17 moments like that fly past almost unnoticed. At any rate, a few weeks later, it was a Friday or Saturday night, and I was stranded out at my parents’ house in the suburbs. I had Tim’s number, knew his mom lived nearby in Loch Raven, and thought maybe he was heading downtown to “the clubs”. What do you know, he was. Of course we just had a ball together and thus began a great friendship.
For the next 8 years or so, Tim and I shared our lives together. We were never lovers, nothing physical ever happened between the two of us (like “sleeping with your sister”, we used to say), but we shared just about everything else. We lived together off and on, helped each other through bad relationships (although I was totally jealous of Tim for some of the boyfriends he used to score!), job situations, you name it; but most of all, and you’ll pardon my French, we had a fucking blast together. Put it all in context: two young guys, set loose in the wild world of the early 1980s- the glitz, the glamour, the decadence, the drugs, the booze, man we did it all. At least, I think we did. That’s how I remember it, anyway. If you knew Tim, you would know that I could have had no better companion to take me through the world of High Fashion Nightclubs, exclusive restaurants, parties on yachts; and no better friend than he to be able to look at, possibly too buzzed to speak aloud, and with a smile and a flash of the eye, say to one another, “Oh my fucking god, girl, this is fabulous! I can’t believe I’m really here!”. We traveled every chance we could, hopped the train from DC to NYC for a weekend of legendary nightclubs like the Saint, (the original Saint, that is), the Palladium, Crisco Disco, Boy Bar, the Ice Palace, and on and on. What a blast.
Many people can remember things like the best meal they ever had, or the longest they have gone without electricity, things like that. One thing I can remember is the hardest I have ever laughed in my entire life, something that I hope everyone can remember. Of course, it was with Tim. The year was about 1985, it was early in the year, which would have made me about 22 and Tim about 24. We were living in DC, and were planning the first of our two trips to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.
We had decided, of course, to go to Mardi Gras in costume, and our costumes were to be 1950s Prom Queens. Now, we are talking “Homecoming Queen’s Got a Gun” type Prom Queens: big huge fluffy multi-crinolined, strapless ball gowns with the whale-boned bodice, humongous high hair, opera-length gloves and of course a tiara. Everything on that list was very easily obtained in Washington, DC in 1985.
Back then there was a store called Classic Clothing, a great Vintage place. They had a huge warehouse just outside the city where you could dig through piles and piles of old clothes and then buy what you wanted by the pound. But, they also had a shop in Georgetown where all the best stuff got sent, and that was where we decided to go to buy our prom dresses. Now, DC in 1985 was fairly progressive, at least in neighborhoods like Georgetown, so the sight of two guys browsing through poofy prom gowns at a vintage shop was not particularly scandalous. It may have been better received around Halloween, but Mardi Gras was quite early that year so this was probably February or early March. Tim and I never gave a fuck about what people thought anyway, so it really didn’t make a difference.
Anyway, we both picked out a gown or two to try on and we both piled into one dressing room. I want to say that Tim had picked out a purple one, but it may have been robins’ egg-blue because, knowing me, I probably had the purple one. So there we were, giggling, having a good time trying on big, poofy prom dresses at Classic Clothing. Now, Tim was never fat, but we could say that he was a little bit bigger-boned than me. So, it might not have been the best idea for Tim, when he decided to try to remove the prom dress by flipping it up and pulling it over his head, pulling the dress inside-out as he went, like some bizarre self-peeling purple crinoline banana. And neither of us should have been surprised when the whole operation came to a halt as the prom gown became irretrievably stuck- the whale bones and Tim’s own bones were locked in a Mexican Standoff that no one was going to win.
I’m not sure when my laughter began. I can still see in my mind’s eye, Tim, bent at the waist, flailing about; tightey-whiteys at one end and some deranged Sid & Marty Croft Purple Petticoat Monster at the other flipping around and screaming for me to help him. I, of course, was completely useless, having been completely incapacitated by the type of laughter that had tears streaming down my face and my sides absolutely aching. Not to mention that I was not quite put together myself when this all started, so I had to remain in the dressing room with the Petticoat Monster, laughing uncontrollably until I was presentable enough to exit the dressing room and cross through the store into the street to the bewildered expressions of everyone in the place. Finally, after a few minutes outside, I composed myself enough to go back in, but by then Tim had somehow extricated himself from his prison of Tulle, no thanks to me. Unperturbed, we continued shopping and eventually bought two other gowns at that very store.
To this day, when I think of Tim, I think of that evening in Georgetown all those years ago. This is the kind of joy I want to remember him for.
Today, on Tim’s birthday, I am reminded of one other story. It was the last birthday we would ever share in each other’s company. It was 1987, and Tim and I had just shared my very first summer in Provincetown. P’Town had worked its magic on me, but it was time to head back to DC and take care of business and move on to the next thing. It was Tim’s birthday, and it was our last day in Provincetown. Tim’s mom, Julia, was coming to pick us up and bring us back to Washington. But, seeing as it was Tim’s birthday, she was taking us for a couple of nights’ stay in Atlantic City along the way. Now, I could go on about my opinion of Atlantic City, but that is for another day. Suffice to say that Atlantic City is no Las Vegas.
Now, Tim’s mom, Julia, was a lovely woman whom I adored. She was from West Virginia and had just enough of that Appalachian twang in her voice to be charming; loved ballroom dancing, and had her hair put up and a blue rinse once a week at the beauty parlor. But perhaps her booking a room for us through AARP at the fabulous Best Western, a few blocks off the boardwalk, didn’t quite jibe with our “Dynasty-Wednesdays-I-Must-Live-Like-Alexis” sensibility. Tim and I just looked at each other and shrugged when everyone in the lobby as we checked in was either asleep, in a HoverRound, or had an oxygen tank.
Like most gay people, Tim and I had a very acute “Gaydar”, even back then; the ability to find the gay people and the gay places in any given city, almost without any guidance. So, that evening, after supper, Tim and I said goodnight to Julia and set out on the real-life Monopoly board that is Atlantic City in search of a couple of cocktails. Gaydar don’t fail me now. But all to no avail. Up and down, back and forth we walked, past the glitzy, big-money casinos and everything else (which is to say, slums), searching for a gay bar. Nothing.
Finally, I spotted a hooker on a street corner nearby. She looked like Margot Kidder if Margot Kidder went for 4 days chain-smoking Winston Lights and not eating. “Honey, are there any gay bars in this town?” I asked her, and she directed me to a place called the Rendezvous Lounge. For full effect, I should spell it “Ronday-voo Lounge”.
Before long, Tim & I found ourselves at the Rendezvous, and to make a long story short, the Rendezvous Lounge still figures in the Top 3 most divey bars I have ever been in in my life. One entered through a long corridor, which eventually opened into a dark, depressing interior. The walls and ceiling were covered from top to bottom in really cheesy 1970s soft-core porn: guys with bad perms and tube socks who had been shellacked there some time during the Carter administration.
At the time, our cocktail of choice was a Madras, made from vodka, cranberry juice, and orange juice. We both ordered one. Apparently, orange juice was far too exotic an ingredient for the Ronday-voo, because what we got was vodka, something red, and Orange Crush from the soda gun. So, Tim and I smiled, clinked our plastic cups together, and I wished Tim a happy birthday, with our crappy drinks in a horrible bar in a miserable city. But we were smiling, with one another and having fun, knowing that quite likely, one of us would be telling this story one day.
Happy Birthday, old friend.