for J. S., in memoriam, 1959–1996
We hold our support-group meetings in a room with Oriental carpets and deep green easy chairs. I arrive a few minutes early to set out chips, cookies, a foil tray full of fried-chicken dinners, and a liter bottle of Coke. Food is a big draw. One by one, they drift in.
Chris leans on his cane, looking skeletal yet elegant in his homemade African cape. He can take an old piece of cloth, twist it over his shoulder, and create an outfit with character, nuance. In his day (“when I had a body” is how he refers to it), Chris was a porn star and a great drag queen. Sometimes, when he feels up to it, he comes to group in his drag persona, Zsa Zsa: red lipstick, ringletted wig, skintight dress, and high heels. I love Zsa Zsa — she’s delicate and wispy, like a monarch butterfly with only one day to live. But today Chris is an old African king, leaning heavily on his walking stick, with a cloth-of-gold skullcap atop his shaven head. He takes his seat on the red couch, his stick resting between his knees, his deeply sunken eyes closed. Lately, he has often slept through group meetings. I don’t say anything. He’s close to the end now. My co-worker Imelda got him into a hospice with a nurse on call twenty-four hours a day and a private chef. For hospice you have to have a note from your doctor saying you’re not expected to live six months.
