BLANCHE - Pt. 9

* ~ I will never forget the incredible spirit of the hospital staff that pervaded St. Vincent’s Hospital in Manhattan.   It truly was a place of love,  light and healing.  When their doors closed this year (April, 2010) due to ‘lack of funding’,  I felt a grief as genuine as any I have ever known – for the patients who so desperately need such a place,   for the talented and compassionate staff who operated as a family and who needed those jobs,  for New York City and for our World in general.  What could be more important than keeping such an establishment not only afloat,  but thriving?  Where the fuck were Donald Trump and Oprah when THAT place folded?  What a travesty.  * ~ * Lynn Ann * ~*

                                                * * * * * * *

It is early autumn 1996.  The trees are still green, but the air has begun to take on a chill.  Nearly two seasons have come and gone, and Blanche is finally gonna be released from St. Vincent’s.   He gives me this incredible news via telephone, a couple of days before our regular Saturday visit.

Blanche: “GURL.  They are springing this jailbird in a day or two, The Higher Power-willing!”

Me: “O, my GOD.  Hiram – they’re releasing you???”

Blanche: “YES, baby – yes.  Hopefully by Saturday.  YOU hereby have MY PERMISSION to SKIP THIS WEEK’S VISIT,  BLANCHE.”

He sounds so happy.  I’m bursting with a million questions but before I can form one, he rattles off the rest of his news. 

First, the good:  The fevers are all but diminished and his blood cell counts have stabilized considerably.  Given how sick he’s been, the staff at St. Vin’s have now taken to calling him their ‘Miracle Baby’. 

But then, the not-so-good.  His condition has been identified.

“Hodgkins Lymphoma.”  He states this defiantly, empowered with this knowledge.  Now that it has a name and a face, he will battle the enemy head-on.   His first chemo treatment will be ASAP – just prior to his release - and after that he will have weekly radiation and chemo on an out-patient basis. 

Me: “Should I pick you up from the hospital, Blanche?  Do you have a plan?”

Blanche: “WHO would I be without a PLAN, my love?  PETER – the mother-hen - is coming to get me.  I’m going to be staying with him for a few weeks at least.”

Peter is about 10 years older and deeply in love with Blanche.  Well, deeply in lust.  He’s newly divorced and newly sober - the two met in recovery.  He also happens to be HIV-positive.  Blanche cares for Peter, but mostly in friendship mode, as he puts it.   At any rate, Peter has been a doting presence throughout this hospital ordeal and Blanche feels he will be in good hands during his chemo/recuperation at Peter’s house. 

A lot has happened over the summer.  I’ve given up my studio apartment and moved in with Chris, clear across town.  The weird thing this is, turns out PETER’s house is DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET from where my old studio apartment was.  Whatever.  Just weird!

Blanche is reclusive during his first weeks home from the hospital.  The chemo is:  “Whooping my butt – but wait until you see me, Blanche.  I might have a new career as a runway model.  Watch OUT, Miss Kate Moss – move your boney ass OVER.”

I don’t want to bother him, but one beautiful fall day I’m out shopping and I decide to call Blanche to see if there’s anything I can bring him.  Peter answers the phone and is yammering away at me – somewhat annoyingly – until I finally say: “Listen, Peter - is Hiram THERE?  I’m at a payphone, here.”  Peter sounds miffed, tells me to hold on.

Blanche fairly jumps thru the phone: “MY LOVE – what is this ESP and WHY are we so GIFTED??  I was JUST thinking of my boo-boo.”

Me: “How are you, bubby?  You sound terrific!”

Blanche: “I’m having a pretty good day, actually.  Climbing the walls a little bit, but…”

Me: “Well, listen – I’m riding around doing a little shopping.  Are you hungry?  Maybe I could pick us up some lunch and bring it over?”

Blanche: “PIZZA!!!  O MY GAWD!!!  And a CALZONE.  With EXTRA CHEESE and SAUSAGE – !  AND TWO CANS OF COKE – not the DIET, BLANCHE – FULL SUGAR ONSLAUGHT!”

Me: “Seriously?”

Blanche: “Gurl, I feel FAMISHED!   I am starved for that calzone AND for the presence of my home-girl.”

I hit Glendale Pizza and arrive at Peter’s house with THE GOODS in record time.  I’ve only met Peter once before, at the hospital when he was arriving and I was leaving. 

Now Peter answers the door with a somewhat manic look on his blotchy, typical Irishman’s face.  He grabs the pizza box from me.  I hold onto the bag containing Hiram’s calzone.  Peter is yammering again - about anything, everything and nothing.  He says that Blanche will be downstairs in a moment.  The way that he refers to Hiram is decidedly possessive. While he is not actually UNpleasant, I do not find him particularly pleasant, either. And I REALLY don’t appreciate the fact that he thinks he can call me Blanche.  

Blanche doesn’t come down.  From the top of the staircase, he calls for me to come up. 

Peter: “HIRAM – THE FOOD WILL GET COLD.”

Blanche (Ignoring him): “COME on UP, BLANCHE!”

Peter sniffs huffily as I head up the stairs. 

Blanche: “In here, baby.”

I turn into the first bedroom at the top of the stairs.  The sun is streaming in on him: Skeletal, sitting on the edge of his bed, he is as white as the sheets.  He turns his huge brown eyes to me and smiles.  Hairless as a newborn, he is stunning: A glowing, living spirit.  I sit next to him on the bed.  No huge record-breaking hugs today – his arms might snap off – but a long embrace that more than suffices. 

Me: “Hey there, bubby.  I hope you’re still hungry.”

Blanche (rolling his eyes): “I AM, I AM – but between you and me, Blanche,  MISS PETER needs to find a hobby that does not include CLIMBING UP MY ASS ALL DAY.”

We head downstairs and have our lunch.  Blanche eats with his old gusto and talks about how he’s looking forward to going back to his recovery meetings and re-joining the human race.  Peter seems antsy and keeps yapping way too much.  Blanche swings his eyes at me imperceptibly and winks happily, ricotta dripping down his chin.  I can read his thoughts:  He won’t be living here much longer.

BLANCHE: A Love Story - Pt. 8

Spring cascades into summer and Blanche is still in the hospital.  Our Saturdays together at St. Vincent’s have become our new weekly rendezvous. 

THE goddamn FEVERS are now ever-present.  Blanche says that since he’s fully acknowledged their existence and his dread of them, it’s as if they’ve been granted full permission to take over.  I tell him he’s giving them too much power, and to stop.  He sighs okay…

More tests.  Blood cell counts fluctuating like crazy.  Blanche’s liver is being attacked:  His skin glows, an olive-hued yellow.  Somehow he pulls it off.  I assure him that he looks like a bronze-burnished young god.   He ruefully replies: Yeah. More like a god-help-me.

He spends many hours propped amidst large, plastic crushed-ice packs.  We don’t go downstairs to smoke much anymore, he’s so wiped out and by now there are just too many I.V.-things to finagle with at any given time.  Too much of a hassle. 

But we do a lot of talking.  I learn that prior to Blanche’s hospitalization, he’s been regularly attending substance-abuse meetings at A.A. and N.A.  He says he no longer has a choice - that if he doesn’t get sober and clean, he knows he’ll die sooner than later.  I hadn’t realized how serious his self-abuse is, but apparently it has been extensive and long running. 

One Saturday, Blanche is cranky and just not having it.  He’s sick of this fucking hospital, he’s sick of the ice bags, he’s sick of being sick.    He’s also very aggravated at a certain ‘friend’ of his who has not come to visit him once during his stint here at St. Vincent’s… 

Blanche: “….and MISS THING LIVES a mere FEW BLOCKS AWAY.  I suppose one finds out who their true friends ARE in this life, but REALLY!!!   I am MORE than DEEPLY INJURED and I WON’T FORGET THIS.  I can maybe FORGIVE, but I will most certainly NOT FORGET!”

It’s actually refreshing to see him getting a little charged up about something.  There’s that hell-raiser I know so well!   

Me: “Blanche, some people are just no good in crisis mode.  They can’t function.  It has nothing to do with you, it’s HIS problem.”

Blanche: “Yes, it’s his PROBLEM all right…”

Me:  “…And his loss, too!  I mean, honestly… of course I wish you were out of here by now, but when all is said and done, I’d STILL rather be spending this afternoon here with YOU than be practically anywhere else with anyone else.  Screw that bitch!”

Blanche (with a tired little laugh): “Oh, honey – we both know you’re only saying that because it’s THE TRUTH, but thank you anyway.”

Me: “And speaking of friendships, Blanche…I was such a frigging bitch to you back when we first started working together.  Do you remember?”

Blanche: “Do I REMEMBER?  It’s how you got your NAME.”

Me: “Right!  So why did you have so much patience with me?  You wore me down until I couldn’t live without you.  Why?  Why did you zero in on me like that?”

Blanche thinks about it for a moment. 

Blanche: “You know why?  Because it’s the story of my life.  I can be in a crowded room and EVERY SINGLE PERSON in that room might LOVE me.  Except for ONE person.  And winning that one person over becomes the only thing I can focus on.”

Me: “So I was a challenge.”

Blanche: “YES – you were like TAMING A VIPER.”  He makes bug-eyes and monster teeth at me.

Me (shaking my head): “How lovely.”

Blanche (laughing affectionately): “Ooooh, Blanche.  That’s not it, really.  Maybe initially it was, but then I could see your heart and your goodness.  Even tho’ you couldn’t see it yourself, I could see you had POTENTIAL.  And see?  I was right!  Look at what a sweet Blanche I have now.”

I feel my lower lip trembling.  Blanche looks weepy, too but we’re smiling at each other.

Blanche: “And ANYhow…I figured – anybody who writes a song called NIKKI’S  TITS can’t be a PMS-ing, crabby bitch ALL of the time!”

* * * * * * * * *

Thank You - Pt. 7

After Hiram’s call I can barely think straight or get any sleep.  Chris drops me off at St. Vincent’s hospital just before 9:00 a.m. the next morning.  It’s a Saturday, and he has to work.  The plan is that he will come get me at the end of his shift, 6:00 p.m.-ish, so I have the whole day to spend with my Blanche.

Once I get to Blanche’s floor, I find his room no problemo.  Everyone seems to know who HIRAM is.  I can hear him conversing animatedly with one of his nurses.  I walk in on him while he’s having some blood drawn.  Blanche looks up and beams happily at me.  The nurse follows his gaze and she smiles at me, too.

Nurse: “Oh, looks like you have an early-morning visitor!”

Blanche: “Yes, I do!  LOOK at my beautiful Blanche, bringing me such an exquisite bouquet!”

I am holding an armful of sunflowers and some fresh corn muffins that I just picked up from the  snazzy little market across the street. 

Me: “Not as exquisite as you, dearest.”  I look at the rapidly filling blood vial.  “Should I come back…?”

Blanche: “SIT DOWN, BLANCHE.  They do this all day long, so you might as well get used to it.”  I sit.

Nurse: “Is this your sister?”

Before I can answer, Blanche says: “YES, it is.  Can’t you see the FABU family resemblance?”  He winks and sends me a little air-kiss.

The nurse finishes up.  As she leaves, Hiram says to her: “Thank you, Gorgeous.  See you soon, unfortunately!”  She shakes her head and smiles over her shoulder and is gone.

Me: “You’re here less than 24 hours and you’ve charmed the pants off the entire staff.”

Blanche: “Maybe not the ENTIRE STAFF, but absolutely this ENTIRE FLOOR.  You expected anything LESS, my love?”

I get up to give him a big hug and a kiss.  Blanche gives the longest, tightest hugs imaginable.  This one is record-breaking, even by his standards. 

Me: “I’m yours all day, Blanche-bubby. You call the shots.”

Blanche: “Ok, then put those flowers down and follow me.  And you’d BETTER have some cigarettes.”

And then he is up and out of bed, striding out of the room and toward the elevators, pulling his rolling I.V. drip alongside him.  He leads the way downstairs to an outdoor area filled with blossoming, green foliage and comfortable patio furniture.  There’s a gazebo. Very pretty.  It’s a gorgeous early-spring day, and already so warm outside that Blanche kicks off his hospital slippers before putting his feet up in a chair across from him.  I hand him my pack of Virginia Slims 120’s Menthols and he quickly lights up, huffing away and sighing luxuriantly.

Blanche: “These are soooo light.  I don’t know why you bother.”

Me: “Ok, Blanche.  So what’s up.  What are these tests you need?”

Blanche: “O, honey – the fevers are just getting ridiculous.  It just became EVERY DAY a higher FEVER.  They don’t last long, but it’s gotten so that they’re disruptive.  I know something’s up.  I just don’t know what yet.”

He has told me about THE FEVERS that have been plaguing him over the years.  I know he must be very concerned if they have brought him here.   At any rate, he looks fine.  Robust, healthy and as vibrant as he has ever looked.  This fact is calming me down considerably.

Blanche doesn’t want to discuss anything hospital-related.  We head back up to his room and he turns on the T.V.  Apparently, today there is a SABADO GIGANTE` Marathon.  I tell Blanche he is one corny bastard watching this crap all day. 

Blanche: “Don’t be a hater, BLANCHE.”  Then he calls out to a passing nurse: “BOO-BOO!!!  Can you be a LOVE and bring me some type of CONTAINER for which I can place my BEAUTIFUL  SUNFLOWER  DISPLAY???  THANK YOU, MY PRECIOUS ONE.”

The nurse comes back incredibly quickly with an actual crystal vase (!!) for Blanche’s sunflowers. 

Me: “You have these people fucking TRAINED, Blanche.” 

He giggles and raises an eyebrow: “WHO can resist me?  My powers speak for themselves.”

Blanche gets tired, tho’.  By noon, he is struggling to keep his eyes open. 

When a nurse comes in to take some more blood, I say: “Honey, I want to go do a little shopping. Take a nap, I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

He smiles wearily and says: “Ok, baby.  Buy me a present.”

Me: “You have to ask?”  I kiss his forehead and hit the streets. 

I enjoy the beautiful spring day exploring this area of the city.  I buy me and Blanche matching sarongs and Indian tunics.  I buy a little wooden music box that has the most beautiful sound from a hole-in-the-wall Russian import store.  I spontaneously stop at a tiny little joint for a $12.00 haircut.    I kill about 2 hours before heading back to Blanche.

When I get back to his room, he is still asleep and SABADO GIGANTE` is still on t.v.  Now I feel tired, too, so I arrange a couple of visitor’s chairs together like a bench, take a spare pillow from the empty bed across the room, use my new sarong as a light blanket and settle in for a nap of my own.  I surprise myself by sleeping for nearly 2 hours.  Blanche’s laughter at his T.V. show is what wakes me. 

Me: “O my god, Blanche – I was out like a light!”

Blanche: “You WERE, home-girl!  And let me say, you DO have quite the SNORE.”

Me: “O, screw you.”  I sit up. “What time is it?”

Blanche: “5:30.  What time is your MAN coming for you?”

Me: “Pretty soon, I guess.” 

And sure enough, the room-phone rings and it’s Chris.  He’s downstairs.  Blanche seems a little nervous when he answers the phone. 

Blanche: “O, HI Chris.  I’ve heard all about you.  Here’s your honey, she’s right here.”

He quickly gives me the phone.  I ask Chris if he wants to come up and meet Blanche.  He says absolutely, as long as Blanche is comfortable about it.  I turn to Blanche.

Me: “Honey, Chris wants to come up and say hi and meet you in person.  Do you mind?  He’ll understand if you’re not up to it.”

Blanche is speechless.  He is crying.  I refuse to get sucked into this again.  I get tough.

Me: “BLANCHE – STOP WITH THE DRAMA.  My man wants to meet my BEST FRIEND, and that happens to be YOU.  Can he come up here or NOT???”

Blanche nods his head, laughing thru tears: “OF COURSE, TELL HIM TO COME UP.  I MUST BE GETTING MY PERIOD, DON’T MIND ME.”

Blanche puts on his brand-new Indian tunic and goes to splash his face with water and comb his hair.  Chris comes up and unsurprisingly, he and Blanche get on like a house on fire.  When Chris excuses himself for a moment to use the bathroom, Blanche looks at me and says, deadpan:

“Gurl.  PLEASE tell me he has a single, gay brother.  PLEASE.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Thank You - Pt. 6

Me and Blanche will soon see the end of our guaranteed weekly rendezvous for the simple reason that the unemployment system has just launched a new telephone-automated system.  It’s no longer necessary to physically appear at their offices in LIC -   now all we have to do is call a telephone number once a week in order to get our check.

We still stay in touch by phone and do the occasional lunch. Blanche even makes it to a couple of my gigs in the city.   We’re both in a real busy phase now, and when one of us calls the other, we have to cram as many life details as we can into our conversation before one of us invariably says: I have to run, sweet-pea.  I need to get to rehearsal.  Or:  I’m meeting my homies over in Brooklyn, Boo-Boo – let me go – I LIVE for you.    And it’s all good. 

At some point I fall in love with the tall, handsome fellow who plays bass for me.  The relationship is so precious to me, I keep it pretty quiet in the early stages because I just don’t want to jinx it.  But I do call Blanche to tell him that I can’t wait to introduce him to my new man – I just know they will get along. 

He is beyond thrilled for me: “Gurl, I’m so JEALOUS.  But I KNEW some man was going to grab you sooner than later.  You are positively RIPE for the PLUCKING.”

Me (laughing): “How poetic, Blanche!  And how about YOU?  Are you in love?”

Blanche: “Hmmm…I wouldn’t say it’s TRUE LOVE, but I’m dating a sweetheart.  Nothing heavy, nothing DRAMATIC.  I just take it day by day, my love.”

Me: “Oh, good.  Enjoy it!  SO - we have to figure out our next get-together!  I want you to meet Chris!”

Blanche: “I’ll meet him soon, don’t worry.  But right now, I have to get my ass dressed and go meet MY boo.”

Me: “OK!  I’ll let you go.  I love you, Blanche.”

Blanche: “Love you, too, baby.  NOW be a good girl and GO GET LAAAAAID.” I hear him still cracking himself up as he hangs up on me. 

Some weeks go by before I actually speak to Blanche again.  I am so consumed with my blossoming love life and my band that there aren’t enough hours in a day anymore.  But me and Blanche do play ‘answering-machine-tag’ often enough, leaving one another our typical messages of devotion and promises to get together SOON.  

One Friday afternoon,  as I am entering my apartment with groceries, the surreal sound of Blanche’s voice talking away on my message machine greets me.  I throw my bags on the sofa and lunge for the phone.

Me: “BLANCHE!  Hello – it’s me - I’m here!!  HI!”

Blanche: “Oh, hi, baby.” 

Suddenly I feel hyper-alert.  His voice sounds tired and anxious.

Me (sitting down next to my groceries): “Are you okay?”

Blanche: “Honey, I’m in St. Vincent’s.  They just admitted me.”

Me: “What?  St. Vincent’s?  What’s going on, what’s the deal?”

Blanche: “I’m alright, honey, I’m alright.  But I have to have some tests done. I might be here for a few days.”

Me: “Ok, well when can I come and see you?  Can I come now?” Silence.  I find I’m holding my breath:  “Blanche?  Are you there?”

I realize that of course he is there, and he is crying softly.  I sit holding the receiver tightly to my face and I am crying, too but I won’t let him hear.  I ask again: “When can I come?”

Blanche: “You really want to come?”

Me: “Listen, are you crazy?  YES I want to come.  When can I come.”

Blanche: “You can come tomorrow.  Today things are a little overwhelming but I think you can come tomorrow.”

Me: “Ok, I’ll be there tomorrow, then.”  What to say.  “Don’t worry, Blanche.  It’ll be okay.”

Blanche: “I know, bubby.  Thank you.” 

Me: “I love you.”

Blanche: “I love you, too.”

 * * * * * * * *

Thank You - Pt. 5

The Heart of Us –  Lynn Ann © 1996

Just before the sun came up

I watched you sleeping fitfully…

One foot – shaking, shaking

I wanted just to hold you.

One black, shiny lock of hair

Against a sky-blue pillowcase

One black, shiny, sleeping dog

Curling up

Against you.

Just before the sun came up

I heard you laughing softly.

Almond eyes

A baby’s smile

I took in everything.

I sat beside you for awhile

You told me of your dream

I gazed in wonder

At the child

Before me.

And you will not leave me.

You will not go.

There’s much to be discussed

Deep in the heart of us.

It’s okay to laugh

It’s okay to cry

It’s okay to trust

In the heart of us.

Finally we’re safe

Finally we’re Home

Finally we’re just

In the heart of us.

And you will not leave me.

You cannot go.

There’s much to be discussed

Deep in the heart of us.

Just before the sun came up…

I watched you

Sleeping.

     *  * *  *  *  *  *  *  * 

The first week of unemployment flies by so quickly and luxuriously, I almost cannot fathom the shimmering beauty of it all.  Until now, never in my life have I ever experienced being a 100% Free Agent: Answering to no one, sleeping whenever I feel like it, jotting down lyrics for a new song, perhaps eating a bowl of soup, walking my dogs, curling up in a blanket to do a bit of reading, putting some chords to those previous song lyrics and then dozing off for a bit again.  By the time I have a band rehearsal or a gig to get to, I literally feel like 10 million bucks.  I have discovered a new rhythm to my life that I never knew was possible.  I am the most blissfully unemployed son of a gun you will ever hope to meet.

Me and Blanche phone each other every other day or so.  When I phone him to confirm our next-day appointment down at the unemployment office, he sounds even happier and saner than I feel.  

Blanche: (Yelling like a nut) “Blanche, we were working waaaaaay too hard!  This is THE ONLY way to live!  Anything less is lies…LIES…ALL LIES!!!!!”

Me: “Sing it to me, soul-sister!!”

He cackles madly: “SING IT?  I’ll slap you silly!  SEE YOU TOMORROW and DON’T KEEP ME WAITING, my LOVE!”

This past week, Blanche has inspired a poem within me.  On line at unemployment the next day, I pull a piece of paper from my jeans pocket. 

I nudge Blanche’s shoulder:  “Hey, bubby.  I wrote this the other night.  What do you think?”

He is mildly surprised - takes the piece of paper and starts reading, his eyes darting quickly.   Within a moment his face crumples and he puts his hand over his eyes – he is crying like a baby.  Finally!  HE’S crying for a change!!!!

Me: “So you know what that’s about?”

Blanche: “O my god, Blanche. You are sooooo fierce.  This poem is SOOOO FIERCE.”

Me: “Thanks!  And I think I’m gonna make it into a song, too.”

Blanche: “O my GOD.  Fucking FIERCE.  Blanche, I LIVE for you~!!”

Me: “Yeah, yeah, yeah.  You say that about MADONNA, too.”

Blanche: “SO?  It’s MY LIFE.  Who’s to say I can’t live for BOTH OF YOU????”

To Be Continued…

Thank You - Pt. 4

As promised, unemployment does not separate me and Blanche.  On the contrary, it serves as a bonding cement.   We arrange for me to pick him up at the Queens Center Mall the very next day.  The plan is to hit the unemployment office down in Long Island City, followed by lunch out and a movie. 

Chaos reigns down at unemployment, and me and Blanche are right in our element.  They corral us into various rooms by groups.  Based on our last initials, we end up sitting side by side.  We’re wedged into little school desks. 

Blanche: “How the hell am I supposed to get my ass in this chair?  It’s made for a fucking 4-year old.”

Me: “Well, maturity-wise at least you fit.”

Blanche: “You gonna start with me in HERE, home-girl?  Do you REALLY think that’s WISE???”

He starts carrying on loudly about the obtuseness of the forms we’re supposed to fill out. I grab his pencil and fling it across the room.  He gasps in mock distress.  Everyone down at unemployment is now shushing us.  Somehow we accomplish what we need to do with instructions to come back the following week for our first check.  We skip out the door, already giddy about the necessity of next week’s outing together.

We enjoy lunch at a yummy little Italian place on Queens Boulevard.  Then we bop around the mall for awhile, mostly window-shopping and walking off our pasta and wine.  Blanche is telling me wistfully how many of the men that he ever truly loved  are closeted men who are married to women.  As we stroll arm in arm thru the mall, I can’t help but notice how many men are looking at my Blanche.  Some surreptitiously but many openly and with no small measure of yearning.  He is, of course, a beautiful young man.  But many of these dudes who are checking him out are walking with their women.  Blanche throws me a look and says: “I told you so.  Closet central.”

Time for the movies, and we could not have picked a better one had we custom-ordered it.  The Elmhurst Theatre is showing a matinee of “MR. WRONG”, starring Ellen Degeneres, pre-her own coming-out.  We sit thru this mess laughing ourselves sick and throughout most of it, Blanche cannot keep his mouth shut:  

“O noooooo – she’s kissing him????  I’m GAGGING.  Home-girl would rather be kissing their WAITRESS!” 

“Of COURSE he’s MR. WRONG – MISS THING is a fucking DYKE – they’re ALLLL MR. WRONG!”

There’s not too many people in the theatre with us at that time of day, but anybody who IS there cannot help but crack up right along with us.  Blanche’s commentary is a zillion times funnier than this movie could ever be.  He saves the film and makes it a classic.

After the movie, we stand out in front of the theatre, still laughing.   It’s very cold outside.  Blanche doesn’t live far and could walk home from here, but spontaneously I suggest picking up some beers and going back to my place.  He immediately agrees that this is ‘a SLAMMING idea’.

It’s so nice having Blanche over at my new apartment.  His presence really makes if feel like home.  My ex-husband drops off my hounds, Girlie and Lula, on his way to work.  (We have a fine arrangement where we share custody.)  The dogs and Blanche really team up quick.  We are one contented little gang o’ four - crunching on Milk Bones, swilling Coors light and talking into the night.   It’s getting late and while I’m not really bombed, I just can’t imagine traipsing around at this hour or even putting Blanche in a cab.

Me: “Blanche, stay over tonight.  That sofa folds out into a bed and I have lots of blankets.”

Blanche: “Oh, fabulous!  Absolutely, my love, thank you.”  

Me: “Great!”  I go to rustle up some bedclothes.

Blanche: “Lynn.  I want to tell you something first.”

His use of my actual name stops me in my tracks, as does the composure in his voice – the combination raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Sure, honey.  What is it.”

He is sitting on the sofa, his hand resting on Lula’s head – she is curled up tight against him, snoring.  I sit down on the floor in front of him, beside Girlie who is stretched out at his feet, also asleep.  It feels like we should both have access to a dog right now – equal footing. I put my hand on Girlie’s belly, waiting.   Thing is, I know exactly what he is going to say before his words hit the air and I am already praying that I am wrong.

Blanche: “Love,  I’m HIV-positive.” He is watching my face guardedly.  His uncertainty of how I might react rips at my heart.

Me: “Oh, Hiram.”  Crying again. Uncontrollable tears, once more with my face in my hands.  Big help.  But my response is the only one possible. 

Blanche: “Don’t cry, honey.  I’m fine.”

Me: “When did you find out?”

Blanche: “I was diagnosed when I was 18.  But it’s probably longer than that.  I’m not sick…but…I needed to tell you.  I feel you should know.”

My stomach is turning inside-out.  All these months of my complaining to him about my bullshit-laden life.   Venting about my relationship issues.  Bitching about god-knows-what nonsense every fucking day.  And he’s been cheering me up, being my shoulder. Making me smile. Taking care of me. 

I tell him that I’m deeply ashamed of myself for being so self-centered all this time. 

Blanche shakes his head: “Honey, don’t be silly - how could you know?  Anyway, I love slogging thru your drama.  It’s like having front-row seats at a sitcom!”

He is noticeably unburdened now.  Calmer, more serene, no longer feeling like he needs to constantly be “ON”.   We are both exhausted after talking until almost dawn and I tuck him into bed as if he is my child.  Smoothing his hair back and kissing his forehead, I promise him that I’ll always be there for him, and I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life.

He smiles up at me, looking like a little boy, and says: “I know that, Blanche,” and then he falls into a deep sleep almost immediately.

I can’t sleep. I sit up until dawn in the chair across the room and watch him sleep.  Tho’ never a big praying kinda gal, it seems like now I can’t stop praying.  It seems like I’ll never stop.

To Be Continued…

Thank You - Pt. 3

Blanche is a “Club Kid” thru and thru.  A “Raver” from way back.  He’s been hitting the house-music NYC dance circuit since looooong before he was anywhere near legal drinking age.   He goes out dancing and partying most nights, work-night or no.   I’m leading a similarly hedonistic lifestyle.  When I’m not rehearsing, I’m rockin’ out into the early morning hours with my band, touring all the cool NYC clubs like CBGB’s, Spiral, The Continental and Kenny’s Castaways. 

On the really bad days, me and Blanche become a duet of moans and groans - a chorus of misery that we form in order to get us thru our individual hells: 

“O…GAWD…just get me thru this fucking DAY…”

“My head feels like somebody slammed it in a car door…”

“I’m about to projectile vomit all over this computer.”

“Oooh…Can I watch?”

“HELP ME…. LORD-JESUS-MARY-AND-JOSEPH…HELP MEEEEEEE….”

“Well, Blanche, you DO look like something the cat wouldn’t bother to drag in.”

“Hmmm.  Are you looking in the mirror again, Blanche?”

“Fuck you, Blanche.”

“Don’t MAKE me rip off your arm and BEAT you with it…”

“BLOW ME.”

All interspersed with waves of our delirious laughter and the incessant SHUSHING of various co-workers.

My crazy schedule is also compounded by the fact that my divorce is now going thru.  I am moving into a cute little studio apartment and everything in my life is topsy-turvy.  Just around the time I’m wondering how the hell I can keep up with this schizo schedule, matters are taken out of my hands altogether.  There is a massive layoff in the firm just before the Christmas holidays.  Bunch of heads are set to rollin’ and me and Blanche are among those who are being ditched.  

So one fine morning, the bi-polar nut of a broad who heads personnel of this company calls us in one by one to let us know we’re getting the sack.  I’ve quit jobs before but never been let go.  Feels a little strange.  Also, I have not asked for any kind of alimony from my ex-husband.  I don’t want any.  Our parting is amicable and I just assume I’ll always have a job.  But what the hell, I’ve got about 6 months of unemployment to burn thru while I sort things out.  The worst part of the lay-off is knowing how much I’ll miss regular contact with the new friends I’ve made at this job.  Of course, Blanche tops the list.

Me (brushing up on my maudlin skills): “Oh, Blanche. How will I ever BEAR not SEEING  you every day?”

Blanche: “Oh, PLEEEEEEEEZE – the DRAMA.  You may not see me every day but you can’t get rid of me THAT easily, Blanche!”

Anyhow, we have a little time yet for our daily dose of BLANCHE SQUARED.  Two more weeks to be exact, because the idiots who run this 3-ring circus tell us (after they FIRE us) that they will – get this – ALLOW US TO WORK FOR TWO MORE WEEKS.    How gracious!   Can you imagine??!?!

Me and Blanche make the most of it, of course.  If we were behaving like insubordinate lunatics BEFORE the layoff, we are now positively incorrigible.  We sit around with our feet up on our desks, reading The Enquirer to each other out loud.  We come in late and leave early.  We take 3-hour lunches and come back half drunk.  We do our “filing” together - throwing away important-looking documents and shoving the rest into the wrong files.   Once in awhile, we answer the phone only to put people on hold indefinitely.  Those two weeks fly by like a vacation. 

On our final day of work, I am packing the last of my personal belongings into a box.  I don’t even see it coming, but as I remove a ragged photo of me and Blanche from my bulletin board, I start to cry.  I feel mortified and vulnerable.  People are glancing at me furtively: My wise-ass armor has fallen off…

…But that armor barely has a chance to clank to the ground before SUPER-BLANCHE, sensing my distress, plunges in to the rescue.  To the tune of Judas Priest’s popular metal song ‘Breaking The Law’, he has changed the words to suit his current actions, yell-chanting at his desk: “STEALING SUPPLIES – STEALING SUPPLIES!”  - His smile coat-hanger wide, his hips gyrating as he tosses staplers, post-it notes, pens, Scotch-tape, scissors, file folders, anything that is not nailed down – into 4 HUGE SHOPPING BAGS. 

I have stopped crying and now I can’t stop laughing.  Shopping bags stuffed to capacity, Blanche links arms with me - “Let’s BLOW this pop-stand, Blanche!  This damn ship has sailed!” -  and off we tromp together, down the hallway, down the staircase and out of the building.  A regular modern-day Dorothy and Scarecrow, ready for our next adventure on our own personal Yellow Brick Road.

To Be Continued…

Thank You - Pt. 2

Turns out, Hiram is a natural collaborator.  We are both born to raise holy hell and battle the establishment.  We regularly shout: “HEY, HOME-SLICE”  and “FUCKING BLOW ME, BLANCHE”  to one another across the office.   Because I have begun calling him “Blanche”, too.   The name seems to suit us both well, and with his office popularity it also makes it easier for me to get his attention.  So we become Blanche and BLANCHE, the two-headed office-monster.   People are constantly shushing us, which only serves to egg us on as we grin at one another conspiratorially:  Mission accomplished:  We’re totally annoying.

He is a smart cookie, my Blanche.  Quick-witted and notices everything about everyone.  Especially if he feels someone is targeting him for ridicule.  For all of his humorous hi-jinx, he takes shit from no one.  I marvel at the way he handles himself.  One asshole project manager who fancies himself some kind of macho stud thinks he can flippantly talk down to Blanche and mock his sexuality.  This moron soon learns who he is dealing with.

Blanche strides into Macho Dude’s office and shuts the door behind him, but I can hear him and see thru the glass window.  He is standing right up in dude’s face, and every word he bites off angrily is punctuated by his beautifully manicured, pointed index finger:

“What the fuck is your problem?  You think I’m some little BITCH?  Lemme  tell you something, BIG MAN.   I got bigger BALLS than you will ever have and you’d BEST be watching how you talk to me if you want to keep those meager little balls.  THANK. YOU.”   Exit Blanche.  Macho Dude sits stunned at his desk, does not emerge for at least half an hour.  He is unfailingly polite to Blanche from that day forward.

Sigh. My hero.

I have found a new reason (the ONLY good reason, really) for coming to work and it’s to laugh and gossip the day away with Blanche.   My soul soars as he swoops to his desk in the morning, DRAMA PERSONIFIED.    Walkman half-hanging from his head, giant bottle of Gatorade in one hand, huge foil-wrapped Cuban sandwich in the other.   He ceremoniously unwraps this pungent feast, all the while boasting about the delicioso self-gratification episode he enjoyed in the shower earlier this morning.

Together, we convene in one of our boss’ private offices, since either or both are usually out in the field.   We chain-smoke cigarettes and slurp coffees and re-create last night’s episode of AB-FAB.  And we bitch about everyone and everything.   He is soooo funny.  His comical, exaggerated impressions of various co-workers and business associates are ruthlessly spot-on.   The laughter he never fails to bring out of me is a healing tonic.  It is ambrosia.

We become each other’s therapists.  We share the experience of having complicated relationships with our parents, whom we feel have never understood or approved of us.  We defend one another and root for each other and when need be, we do not hesitate to give one another a good kick in the ass. 

At some point, I go on vacation.  I take a trip to London to visit a friend.  I fly solo, sans husband.  This trip gives me some personal clarity and coming home two weeks later, I know for certain that my marriage is over and that it’s only going to be a matter of time and logistics.

Of course, the first thing I do is talk to Blanche about it.  I am tearful and maudlin.  He listens, shaking his head lovingly but with an expression that says: Gimme a break. 

Me:  “What?  This is really hard, Blanche!”

Blanche: “I know, Boo-Boo, I know.  But puh-LEEEZ.   You are NOT the first and you will NOT be the last to get your ass divorced.  PLUS, you’re still young and FABULOUS!  GURRRRRL…..You should be out dancing in the STREETS!”

Smiling thru my tears, I rummage in my bag for the little British Changing of the Guard doll I’ve brought back for him from London.  He grabs it like a greedy child, all dimples, eyes dancing with delight. 

Blanche: (talking at the doll): “Yip! Pip!  Cheerios!!”

Me: “Blanche, that is the worst British impression I have ever heard.”

Blanche: “What the fuck do you want from me - my only example is those drunken bitches on AB-FAB.”

* * * * * *

To be Continued….