For A Dancer... (Warning- sentimental)

Summary Paragraph: In which Bruce Menin remembers the life and death of a close friend, which occurred on the 1st anniversary of his own wedding to Julie Menin. And the lessons he learned from Charlie.

In that wonderful way life has of wrapping the sweet and the bitter, intertwined like ivy reaching skyward, October 15th has a special meaning for my wife and I. It is our wedding anniversary; in fact this is our 14th Anniversary. She is my hero; she is a wonderful, intentional loving mother, and has more creative muscles she hasn't flexed than anyone I know.

On October 15th, 13 years ago, one of my closest friends, Charlie Stramiello, succumbed to AIDS. It was an agonizing passing for him; the only time I ever visited a psychic, out of the blue, she told me that I needed to keep urging him in my prayers to look for the light, and then he would be alright.

Charlie and I met in 1972. We were both early admissions to a local Community College as part of the first group of American students to participate in the then brand new International Baccalaureate program. You skipped the last year of high school, took a very heavy course load in 5 subject areas and philosophy; the second year was spent in London; at the end of the two years we took a single exam 8 hours long in each subject area. Pass the test get the diploma. Fail the diploma, you still has an associates degree, with something like 90 credits to show for two years work.

Charlie got in because he was brilliant, and the program was creaming off the top of every high school in the county. I got in because they needed to fill a seat to make the program fly.

During our first day in class, our English teacher, the prim, bookish wife of one of the Deans, began to describe our studies for the semester. Her passion for the subject absolutely transformed her. Suddenly, her hair came down, she moved like an actress on the stage, and we were transfixed at her astonishing change, from quiet, subtle contained personality to an alive, sinewy, electric figure in front of us.

It was at that moment that Charlie, who was sitting next to me, passed a note betting me $5 that he would somehow do something so wonderfully bold, outrageous and libidinous with the Dean's wife by the end of the semester that I'm still blushing to this day. I knew then that I liked his style.

Charlie was an a terrific actor, a brilliant student, at times a hedonist; there was nothing he wouldn't try, and he was one of the funniest human beings I've ever met. We did some traveling together, actually spending a night shivering in the ruins of some castle near the Welsh border because we'd arrived too late to get into the hostel. Charlie and I had our ears pierced before we left England, he for his reasons, mine because I felt the year in England had marked a passage into adulthood for me. I passed out, and came to listening to Charlie yelling at the woman for what she had done to me.

Charlie hid his diagnosis from me for over a year; he lost friends because of it, and thought he would lose our friendship. That it meant so much to him surprised me, I remember; as did his fear that he would lose it over this issue. I also couldn't get my arms around how it was possible for someone to disappear from a friend's life when they needed you.

Charlie, who appeared in a few movies (The Eyes of Laura Mars and Star Dust Memories) had given up acting, was actually at the pinnacle of his next profession when he was forced to give up work. He had decided to become a meeting planner, if one actually makes such a decision; and within a few years, he was on the cover of their trade journal as one of the top 10 meeting planners in the country. He was president of their New York trade association for a year as well. That's where I borrowed the picture of him.

I tried to get back into New York City at least every month to spend time with him and his partner. In the summer of 1994, a few of us who had gone to school in England got together; I drove to NYC to pick him up and then back to Cape Cod to visit with all of us. He was gaunt.
He didn't last two nights, he was in a great deal of pain, so we drove back to New York.

Julie and I visited him in the hospital in September '94, at the urging of his partner. He was lucid, and when we hugged goodbye, we both knew it was goodbye. That was unlike everything I'd ever done or known before; I was deeply affected.

As Julie and I were celebrating our first anniversary, October 15th, 1994 at a B & B on Cape Cod, Paul, Charlie's partner called to tell us he had passed.

We were there for the funeral; a totally surrealistic event that Charlie couldn't have planned better if he had tried. I went up to pay my respects to his earthly remains, and his family had pinned above his face on top of the casket interior a picture of Charlie and I holding his ubiquitous bulldog, Hoonie, which Charlie had named after hearing someone use the phrase to describe a part of their body. That was pretty much when I lost it.

We all do the best we can. I have, had great affection for his parents, who were like a great indulgent surrogate aunt and uncle to me during my delinquent days, pulling all-nighters with Charlie to study before we left for England. Despite Charlie's eclectic lifestyle, they felt obligated to send him with some sort of religious ceremony, so they brought in a rent a priest.

And the priest talked about the tragedy of losing a son, because it also meant losing grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. And everyone in the audience knew Charlie had sown some mighty wild oats, but the likelihood of any of them producing an heir was extremely remote. So in the middle of the Padre's soliloquy, Mike, Charlie's Dad, asked if I would do an impromptu eulogy.

I did. I recounted some of our adventures, and some of my observations. Some stories were dicey, some roll on the floor funny, but they were all Charlie. As kind and considerate as he was, he could be outrageous and completely disarm anyone with words alone. A master at the snap. You ached after he went to sleep, or the visit was over, because his observations of the world were so witty and cogent. His friends in the audience, and his family also knew this Charlie, so it worked.

And then I looked out into the crowd, and saw several people who had abandoned him during his illness. Charlie was too busy and had too short an attention span to hold a grudge; but in some of our conversations, he named these people as the ones who had most disappointed him, by not returning calls or notes he had sent. He didn't have any "business" with any of them, didn't owe them money, he simply wanted their company.

My final comments were directed at them. Time is short, it passes quickly. People matter, lordy, in the end, they matter most. How you move through life among human beings, how you find ways to honor and love and comfort them; that really matters.

13 years and I swear I still think about him every day. Tomorrow, I'll light a memorial candle for him. A light. And I'll say the prayer again; move towards the light, Charlie. And don't trip on anything in the dark.

And Charlie, if he was watching me, would laugh and call me a putz.
"Why light a whole candle, you putz!" he would say.
"I was only half-Jewish."

For some reason, every time I approached New York City to visit him, I'd be cruising the radio dial, and the Jackson Browne song "For a Dancer" would be playing, and I would have to pull over because it always brought me to tears; still does.

It's all about Charlie, the song. It captures him like no other words I could ever string together.

So even in the middle of running for re-election, I am still learning to hold onto moments with the people in my life I see. My in-laws, my wife and kids. My neighbors, my friends, my peers, strangers; even people who I know have trashed me behind my back.

Because, as the Paradoxical Commandments point out, it is never about you and them, it's really about you and G-d.

I miss you, Chas. And I am grateful beyond words for the life I have been given, my partner Julie, my kids, my gifts and my challenges.

Keep moving towards the light Charlie. I know I'll need a guide when I cross over, so gotta get there.
And Happy Anniversary, Julie. How about we set up the tent in the backyard, and let the kids sleep out, and then order a pizza, just you and me?