Essays: January 2008 Archives

It was my day off from work. I woke up early anyway. It was nice not to have to drive across town to park at my rendezvous point and wait for the van, that would carry me over the Bay Bridge, through Walnut Creek, and eventually into sunny San Ramon. In those days, San Ramon was little more than a blip out in the middle of nowhere. I suppose today, it is the home of countless people looking for a home away from expensive San Francisco.

But the year was 1986, and we lived in San Francisco, at 716 Dolores Street. I have no idea how I remember that. Kent would drive each day down to Stanford University where he was working on a post doctorate. I worked at a company named Davy McKee. Looking back on it now, it seemed like quite an ordeal, commuting the 45 minute drive across the San Francisco Bay Bridge, and then back again. It wasn't all that bad really. I would drive to my rendezvous point, where I would meet up with a van that would take me, along with other co-workers, over to San Ramon. Ninety percent of the work force was Filipino. I remember one of the jokes at the time (there were many crude jokes) was that Davy McKee would go down to the docks to pick them up as their (the Filipino's) boat landed, and recruit them into their work force. It was cheap labor. Obviously that didn't happen, but for some reason Davy McKee had a reputation for hiring minorities that had just come into the country.

So on my day off, I called Stan, my friend. Stan and I went back a long way. We went to college together. He and his "lover", Steve, moved to San Francisco when we lived in San Mateo. It's strange to me, looking back on this, how we termed ourselves in those days. We referred to our partners as "lovers", because "spouse", or "husband" just didn't seem appropriate. We couldn't marry, after all. Indeed, if you had mentioned to any gay couple at the time the possibility of them getting married, they would have cursed at you for daring to wish such a dreadful heterosexual union upon us. We were queer, they were breeders. That's the way it was. There was our area, The Castro, and their area, the straight area. In The Castro, we could freely hold hands without fear of being beaten up. In their area, we couldn't do that. Once we left our area, we were at the mercy of whatever was out there waiting for us. And, there was a lot waiting for us. Gay bashers would lerk on the outskirts of The Castro waiting for a queer or two to bash. It was sport. In fact, our area was such a novelty that the City of San Francisco would send tour buses down to the corner of Market Street and Castro Street, so that the tourists could see all the gay people, from the safety of their bus of course. That was our world.

Stan was suffering from the late stages of AIDS. In the days of the late 1980's, there wasn't much that could be done. I called him and demanded that I come over and that we go out. He wasn't feeling well. I arrived and commented, "Man you look like crap." He said, "Gee thanks. I feel like crap." I said, "Let's get out of here and see what's happening in The Castro.

It was a nice sunny day. The morning fog had just burned off and left a crispness in the air. The Castro was as busy as ever. Stan had this craving for donuts for some reason. I didn't argue. He was very thin. We went in, and bought a few donuts, and sat down to eat them. It was a nice chat. Afterwards, he tired quickly, so I took him home and cleaned up his place while he slept.

It was a nice day. I was able to get a small amount of time with my friend. We both knew it wouldn't last. Each day I could see him slipping away more and more. Did anyone care? I cared, but it was like shouting in a large crowd, and everyone just kept going along their way, without notice. But all these years later, I notice.

My friends name was Stanley Craig Hugill. I miss him a lot. If anyone knew him, I wouldn't mind talking about him. He was a good friend.