Nick, and I met him, probably, 16 years ago. Or at least I saw him. He was a waiter at Toby’s restaurant in Jackson Square in Hamilton Ontario. It was impossible to miss him -- larger than life in every way --tall, fat, loud, very gay, and a screaming queen. When Nick used to wait on tables at Toby’s, he turned the whole place into a gay bar. I was afraid to go there at first because it embarrassed me to be around him. I mean if you’ve spent your whole life not wanting to be made fun of because you’re effeminate, and then you walk into a public space, and there, holding court is a mincing, yelling, flirting, over-the-top creature from hell, prancing around, sashaying up, to patrons: ‘What can I get you Mister Man?” Everything was innuendo; even when there was a distinct lack of sexual subtext to support it. And the older women; oh — they loved him. Tables full of of elderly Marys, Fays and Mays all doted and cooed. “And what can I get for you — you lovely young ladies?” He would ask, and they would giggle. And May would say ‘I’m trying not to put on any weight' and Nick would say “Darling you’re beautiful,” and they would giggle again. There was no stopping Nick. So I would hide in a corner and hope that he didn’t wait on my table. Then one night I went to the bathhouse in Hamilton. (There is only one bathhouse and it’s almost always empty. Apparently it’s busy at lunch hour? Because Hamilton is a working class town?). Anyway, there was Nick taking money at the door; it was my worst nightmare. 'I’m sure you’re going to have a wonderful time, Mr. Handsome. You simply must tell me every naughty detail.” I stayed there for quite awhile that night -- just waiting someone to show up, and by the time I left, Nick was gone. But he still worked at Toby’s (apparently the bathhouse was a part time job). I avoided eating there until one day I just went, and of course, he was at my table. “Well, Mister Man, I haven’t seen you in quite a long time.” “No,” I said demurely, “I hope you had a wonderful night, and that you didn’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” “No, I didn’t,” I said. Then something happened. In spite of myself, I began to be less afraid of Nick. Who knows why? Maybe I just got used to him, and gradually I began to look forward to hanging out at Toby’s. I tried a new tactic. When Nick started telling me how good-looking I was, I would say “You’ll have to meet my boyfriend —” at which point he changed the subject. I certainly never knew him really -- hardly talked to him except to exchange banter, and yet Nick — and other gay men like him — have always cleared the path for us. They were the canaries in the coal mine, the ones they sent down to plum the depths of homophobia while the rest of us were dipping our toes in the water. Like Barbra Streisand, or Bette Midler, Nick separated the men from the boys, you either loved him or hated him. But he made Toby’s safe for us. Any homophobe would be frightened to enter. Well, last year I went to Toby’s a couple of times and he wasn’t there. It finally occurred to me that something might have happened to him -- so I asked my favourite waitress. “Oh — he died,” she said. I was appalled, sad, frightened. ‘How?” “A heart attack. Just like that.” Well it certainly made sense — in the 15 years or so that Nick had been waiting on tables he had gotten fatter and fatter, and sweatier and sweatier — until it got to the point that he was huffing and puffing as he laid down yet another plate of cheesy fries. ‘Oh girlfriend, I’m worn out” he would say. Well, indeed he was. Today I went back to Toby’s and my favourite waitress was there; Toby’s was as empty as the bathhouse due to COVID-19. So I asked her to tell me a little more about Nick's death. “He was fifty-four years old” she said “and he’d been working here for 34 years. I've only been here for 32. We started off together.” No wonder Nick acted like he owned the place. I asked her if there had been a funeral. “Yeah it was last February just before COVID-19.” I asked her if there were a lot of people there. “Oh yeah,” she said. I asked her if his family knew he was gay. “How could you not know Nick was gay?” she said. Indeed. I got a crazy idea. I haven’t actually done it yet; but I’m going to try. You see, Nick makes an appearance in my novel Sad Old Faggot. The book is kind of my fake autobiography, but at the end Nick appears, and I have a harrowing experience with him (quite fictional) which kind of gives the book its title. It suddenly occurred to me that I might want to make someone in Nick's family aware of the book. “He had three sisters,” my favourite waitress said. Well of course; that makes perfect sense. So now I have Rose’s phone number. We’ll see. I have to reread the end of it. In my book, Nick is part monster, part saviour — in other words, he’s human. But I think his sister might thank me for making her aware of the homage. Don't get me wrong; I’m doing it completely out of selfishness; when I go to Toby’s these days the fact that he’s not there is just too difficult to endure. After so many ears spent fearing him, I’m now longing to see him again. I must bring him back to life, if just for a moment. I ‘m ashamed to say I don’t know my favourite waitress’s name. We've been friends ever since she demanded to see my tattoos years ago, and the word ‘piglet' caught her eye. When I told her it was my boyfriend's nickname she started calling me 'piglet.' When I told her about the book she said -- “That’s funny, I used to call Nick 'faggot.' I was the only one who could call him that. And he used to call me a 'douchebag.'” It sounds like a very gay relationship to me. Where have they gone, all the Nicks of the world? You might think they died of AIDS. No, their spirits died of the hypocrisy that engulfed post-AIDS gay politics. After AIDS we all ran to our cellphones and hid on apps that say ‘no fats or fems.’ These days it’s all about being perfect and fitting in, supporting the police, and pretending you like starchy collars and church; after all the trans folks find our camp jokes ‘toxic’ -- don't you know? Once we loved to flaunt it — we were Proud Pansies and Girly-Boys. And though you might wish to call it something else, I’m afraid I call that courage.
