BLANCHE - Pt. 12

One frosty winter day while on lunch break, I’m overwhelmed with the desire to call Blanche.  It surely has something to do with the fact that I’ve just gotten my hair cut by Carmen, a spirited little Latino gal who never fails to remind me of Blanche:  Both are dark-haired and striking and both possess a vivacious laugh and melodic cadence of speech.

Anyhow, Carmen has just told me that tonight is a big night for the Latino community at large.   Seems that the most popular Spanish soap opera in the world is airing it’s FINAL EPISODE.  She can’t WAIT for this workday to end so she can go pick up some Pio-Pio for the family, take the phone off the hook and snuggle up in front of the tube for what promises to be a cliffhanging, nail-biting, HUM-DINGER of a finale. 

So once I get back to my office, I dial Blanche’s number.  I’m all keyed up, thinking how PROUD he’ll be of me for having this bit of privileged, cross-cultural information.

“Hello…”  It’s Blanche, but he sounds awful.  Sad, sorrowful and weary.  

Me: “Blanche.  What is it.”

I am completely unprepared for the heartrending outpouring of grief that follows.

Tearfully, he tells me that he’s had a relapse.  He’s been on a 3-day bender. 

Me: “Okay, you just calm down Hiram.  Are you alone?”

Blanche: “No.  My mom is here with me.” 

Me: “Good. Listen - I’m gonna get out of work early and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Blanche: “You’re coming all the way to Bay Ridge?”  He’s living there now.

Me: “What, suddenly Brooklyn is MARS???  Sit tight, I’m coming.”

I call Chris, swing into the city to pick him up first and we truck it on over to Hiram’s place.  His mom answers the door.  Big, sad blue eyes.  Blanche’s eyes in blue.   I hug her, and she’s kinda stiff.  Flustered, apologetic, embarrassed.  Exactly how my own mother would be if this were happening to me.  She points the way to the bedroom.

Blanche is sitting up in bed.  Head shaven, a little pale but honestly he doesn’t look half-bad.   He gives me and Chris such gargantuan hugs that I’m flooded with relief.  He’ll be okay.

His story pours forth:  A small tumor was recently discovered near his collar bone.  The lymphoma is back.  He needs another course of chemo.  One fragile evening, he hooks up with a friend who he thought was in recovery, but who in fact has been using again.  Blanche is at a low ebb and so disgusted with everything at that point, he ends up getting high.  And now he just can’t forgive himself. 

Thing is, he speaks of the tumor and the chemo as tho’ they are inconveniences that he will power thru.  The thing that has him completely devastated is the fact that he got high again, after all of his years of hard-won sobriety.  He doesn’t know how he will ever be able to face his friends in recovery, people whom have heard his inspirational lectures and witnessed him in action – at the top of his game.

Blanche: “I threw it all away, honey.  I took it and JUNKED it and now it all MEANS NOTHING.” 

Me: “You can’t say this, and I will not LET you say this.  It’s just not TRUE, Hiram!  All the good work you’ve done still has the same meaning.  You’re still the same person who’s been sober for YEARS now, and who inspires people enough to save their LIVES.  You slipped up, 3 little days out of your life.  It sucks, but SO WHAT?  You’re not gonna KEEP slipping up, right?”

Blanche: “But how can I face people now?”

Me: “The same way you’re facing ME!   You’re human!  WOW, so you’re not a super-hero after all!    I know sometimes it seems like you are – even to me - but hey, as a wise man once said: Guess what?  At the end of the day, we all shit behind two shoes!” 

Boy, I really pulled that one out of a hat, but it gets a laugh out of him. 

Me: “The thing that amazes ME is the fact that you haven’t reached for a drink before this, after everything you’ve been thru.  Not that I’m encouraging you, now…”

I notice his glance hovering to the T.V. set across the room, and I realize that the BIG FINALE of that Spanish soap opera is about to start.  Blanche’s mom is all serious, already staring penetratingly at the screen and it’s only the credits. 

Excellent!  My ACE IN THE HOLE!!  

I bluster: “OH, RIGHT!  THIS IS THE FINAL EPISODE!”

Blanche, his mother and Chris all look at me stunned, like: How the hell do YOU know about this show?

I quickly tell them about my haircut appointment with Carmen, and about how that’s the reason I ended up even calling Blanche today.   

Blanche looks at me and takes my hand solemnly, sez: ‘God knew I needed you today.’  

I feel a little shiver.

Then we all settle in and watch the soap opera.  I have no idea what the hell is going on, but it hardly matters.  It’s a damn good show.      * * * * * *

BLANCHE - PT. 11

Dunno whether I’ve mentioned this about Blanche or not, but just in case I haven’t... The dude is not the shrinking violet type.  Not what you’d call a wallflower.   He’s a regular li’l  go-getter, especially in the attention department.  So I’m not too surprised when he phones me at work one day to give me the latest scoop…

Blanche: “HONEY!  I hope you’re not God-forbid-actually-working and we can chat a bit…?”

Me: “This is strange.  I was just going to call you.”

Blanche: “What’s so strange about it?  LISTEN!  I’m going to be leaving for a 7-day Caribbean cruise.  Don’t hate me too much.”

Me: “Wow!  Well, I do hate you but what can I do about it.”

Blanche (giddy): “NOTHING!  But LISTEN!!! I haven’t told you the LATEST…”

Me: “You have my attention.”

Blanche: “Last week I’m riding the train, just reading the newspaper.  And out of the blue this woman approaches me.  Turns out she’s a photographer!  And she asks me if I would be interested in modeling for a magazine that she freelances for!”

Me: “Wow!  Incredible, Blanche!”

Blanche: “Well, not SO incredible.  I was wearing a sari, very flowing, very very Bangladesh if you get my drift.   Truthfully, I was working it that day.”

Me: “Yes, you’re nothing if not truthful.”  We’re both laughing. “So, you gonna do it?”

Blanche: “Well, LISTEN!!  It’s a NUDE photo shoot!”

Me: “O MY GOD.  ARE YOU GONNA DO IT??”

Blanche: “Honey, I already DID it!  A whole series of shots.”

Me: “O, I cannot believe you.  I mean I BELIEVE you, but I cannot BELIEVE you!!”  I’m totally cracking up.

Blanche: “It’s very tasteful, very artistic.  You can see for yourself – there’s an online version of them as well – write this link down…”

He gives me the link and stays on the line while I pull it up on my screen.  Yup, there’s Blanche – all kindsa NAKED!  But he’s right, these are elegant, classy photos indeed and he has never looked more gorgeous.  I tell him so.

Blanche: “THANK YOU, honey.  Well, you know – I figured, I’m looking pretty fine these days.  Might as well record it for posterity.  Plus, I got paid! They showed me the money!”

We chat a bit more and then it’s Bon Voyage with promises to hook up when he returns from sea.

I hang up and realize I have to pee like a racehorse so I head for the restroom.  At the same moment, my boss is heading in to my office to put something on my desk. We pass each other in the hall. 

Behind me, I hear him gasping: “Oh for CHRIST’S SAKE.  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING ON THIS COMPUTER?  THIS DOES NOT LOOK WORK-RELATED.”

I realize I have left Blanche’s full-frontal shot up on the screen, for all of the world – but especially my uptight, repressed, freak-a-zoid boss – to enjoy.

I call over my shoulder: “IT’S NOT WHAT YOU THINK!  HE’S A REALLY, REALLY GOOD FRIEND OF MINE!” 

Somehow this fact doesn’t seem to calm my boss down too much.  He’s beside himself.  A little TOO beside himself, if you ask me. 

When I tell Blanche about it, we will laugh about this one for a long time.

BLANCHE - Pt. 10

One thing about Blanche, he’s the self-sufficient type.  As he puts it, he doesn’t do ‘needy’.  Within a short time of our pizza party, he calls me to announce that he’s moved out of Peter’s house.

Me: “Well, I definitely saw THAT coming…”

Blanche: “Oh, PLEASE Blanche - I mean, I appreciate everything he did but when all is said and done, I am TOO THRU with Little Miss CLING-WRAP.”

I laugh: “He was sure nuts about YOU, tho’…”

Blanche: “Hmmm.  Well, he was never MY type.  Anyway, I think he just liked the IDEA of someone like me.  An EXOTIC.”

Me: “Well, you are at that…”

Blanche: “WhatEVAH,  BLANCHE.” Then his voice gets serious: “He sealed it when he started using again.  First he started drinking his beers ‘once in awhile’.   THEN he starts staying out late – which I preferred, mind you – but when he came home, he was coked-up.  And then - DENYING  it???  Nuh-uh.  Sorry.  I can’t and I WON’T.”

So now Blanche is crashing at his cousin’s place in Jamaica, Queens.  His cousin is also in recovery for substance abuse.  I visit every other week or so and we mainline coffee together and watch cable.  There’s always an interesting cast of characters stopping by.  They’re all in recovery and they all call me Blanche.  Somehow with these guys, I don’t mind at all.

And life goes on.  Blanche is all about recovery now, and attending his meetings.  He goes to lots of meetings and has such an incredible array of friends in his life that it’s impossible to keep track of who he’s talking about half the time.  He’s got something else, too – his Spirituality.  His Higher Power.  Which I guess is all tied up in his recovery, altho’ he’s always been a spiritually DEEP kinda guy.  Always spouting that Blanchian Wisdom and shit.  Not that I don’t love it.  Me and Blanche can discuss spiritual matters for hours on end if you let us.  He’s practically the only person I know who I can comfortably do so with.   The job where we first met was called R+R, so now we joke with each other that Blanche attends a NEW version of R+R:  Recovery and Religion.

Blanche eventually gets his own little apartment.  After a lunch date, he brings me over to see it.  The place is tiny, but it’s all he needs and he has it tricked-out really nice.  The centerpiece is his Santeria Altar.  He’s been trying to educate me, but I don’t know very much about this religion.  I have to say, tho’, that the altar is gorgeously elaborate.  He has put much love and care into making it so.  Hiram has his Faith, as well he should – it has taken him pretty far.

My memory of the next couple of years are a montage of  Blanchian events: 

…Blanche receiving his 1-year sobriety pin and inviting me, Chris, and our dear mutual friends from workdays past, Teresa (Weezah) and Nikki (of the famous Tits)  to come to the ceremony  in Brooklyn.  He is so proud and so obviously beloved among his peers. 

…Taking Blanche out to dinner at JOE’s, our favorite Italian joint in Queens, for his birthday.  People around us can’t help but become engaged and laugh along with us – he is so high-energy and thoroughly enjoying himself.  As we sing Happy Birthday he starts getting emotional and I yell: “DON’T YOU DARE, BLANCHE~!! DON’T YOU DARE!”  He cries anyway, of course.

…Blanche showing up at one of my gigs.   Just before I’m set to go on stage, I catch him arriving - emerging from a cab on Avenue C,  accompanied by one of his pretty Latino home-girls from recovery.  He is sporting a small moustache, his gorgeous hair has fully grown back and he’s wearing it LONG.  He is filling out his jeans nicely and he does a runway-walk up to the stage to hug the living crap out of me, nearly electrocuting us both with my guitar chord,  but who cares…

…Blanche receiving his 2-year sobriety pin.  The word ‘Proud’  does not describe him this time.  He is positively, radiantly rapturous.  

Then a 3 or 4 month period of time passes by and we drift apart a little.   Hey, it happens to the best of us.  I’m just super-busy with my band and a new stupid office job, and Blanche’s social calendar is off the hook.  In between meetings, he juggles countless  friends’ obligations plus he is now SPEAKING at meetings, giving motivational lectures to his brothers and sisters in recovery.   I’m very proud of him, and every day we mean to call one another but somehow we keep letting it slide.

So one evening, me and Chris have a band rehearsal in our apartment.  Just us and our drummer who brings a small kit over.  (Yeah, the neighbors LOVED us in THAT building…)  Anyhow, the drummer is coming over fresh from a little gig he just did in Brooklyn.  He’s moonlighting for this female R&B singer.  After our rehearsal, he goes: “Hey, wanna hear a tape of my gig tonite with this R&B broad?”  Sure, pop it in…

Two minutes into this tape that we’re listening to, I hear BLANCHE’s raucous laughter and obnoxious jokes in the background.  I stare at my stereo in shock. 

The drummer sez: “Oh, yeah – there were a couple of gay dudes there, really tearing it up.  They got pretty loud…” 

Chris looks at me and I look at him and we both yell: “HIRAM!”  My drummer is like – huh?

I grab the telephone, dial Blanche’s number.  He answers, sounding tired.

Me: “Blanche.”

Blanche: “Blanche!”

Me: “Listen to me.  What the fuck were you doing cheating on me at some other bitches’ gig TONITE?”

He is silent for just a second.  Then he goes: “How the hell did you know that.  Were you THERE????”

I tell him about the ‘coincidence’ of my drummer having taped the show, etc.  We are in hysterics. 

Blanche: “WELL, GURL…that JUST GOES TO SHOW YOU…there ARE no ‘coincidences’!   THE GODS are saying – “OKAY - If those two idiots can’t manage to STAY IN TOUCH,  I guess we have to take matters into our OWN HANDS!”

                                                                     * * * * * * * * *

To Be Continued….

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.”

 * * * * * * * *