“Pretty Boy.”

Neither of us ever said we were gay. How many of us ever do introduce ourselves that way. But the recognition was more or less instant and allowed for an ever-expanding familiarity. Before long Neil wasn’t simply a tenant. I got to know quite a lot about him and vice versa. I guess he had at least twenty years on me and much more experience. We got along just fine with our shared sense of humour and laid-back approach to life, which soon cemented a bond. Once we bumped into each other in a gay bar and camped it up a bit. But aside from that we had only one outing together. Perhaps, had there been more time we might have had more.

Neil invited me out for a drink on welfare day, which I presumed meant he was paying. It was then I started learning more about his past. He hadn’t always been poor and plagued by ill health and obesity. But he had always been a smoker from his earliest escapades on the reserve almost to his last gasping breaths in Vancouver General Hospital. Cancer killed him in the end, like he knew it would, but he frequently said he’d had a good innings.

As a young, attractive native boy he’d been seduced away to live in New York with his handsome hustler Negro lover named Len. Lenny was older by ten years with several sources of illicit income that often kept them apart. Whenever Len was in jail Neil continued keeping house. His lover’s friends handed-over the house-keeping cash and made sure, in various ways their buddy’s boy wanted for nothing during times of enforced separation. Lenny didn’t object.

“After all”, Neil would chuckle, “it kept me in good condition for his return. I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy those little holidays. You know what they say, a change is almost as good as your first fuck.”

But Len went big time.

“Got a little too ambitious. Was sent down for ten years.”

I stared questioningly at Neil. He paused to sip the froth off his beer.

“Deary, what was I to do? I couldn’t keep the apartment going that long alone.”

What Neil did was sell-up and moves out.

“With Len’s consent presumably?” I asked sarcastically.

Neil laughed.

“Well! He consented to selling and moving out but we had different ideas thereafter.”

“Meaning?”

“Well Sweetie, I think he meant me to pay the cash in to his bank account instead of mine.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Neil took a deep drag on his dying fag and looked me in the eye.

“Oh for Christ’s sake! Ten years is a long time! I wasn’t a saint you know!”

“So what happened?”

“Oh, you know.”

“No I don’t. Tell me.”

“Well I moved back to good old Canada. Actually, ‘hurried’ back might be more accurate and became a respectable born again virgin.”

“Yeah right! And then?”

“Then, what? The rest is history and here I am.”

Neil ordered another jug and lit up again making sure to exhale as far away from me as possible. He started coughing. I kept my mouth shut.

“No. I’m joking. I found a job in a bar and worked my way up to manager.”

“But what about Len?”

“Oh bless him, the bugger came looking for me!”

“Really! What happened?”

“Well Honey, I thought my time was up. I got word he’d arrived in town but it was too late. Lenny had tracked me down and wandered in one night. Walked right up to the bar and looked me in the eye.”

“Hey, Pretty Boy. Pour me a scotch.”

“That’s what he used to call me, Pretty Boy’”

Neil said his mouth dropped open.

“I thought, that’s nice, he’s ordering a drink before he shoots me! So I poured the goddamn scotch and put it on the bar. Len could see my hand shaking. Then he just roared with laughter that bugger. ”

“Now get your tight little butt round here Pretty Boy. We’re hitting the town to celebrate.”

“And did you” I asked’’

“And how! Three weeks. Like a second honeymoon! Len was always generous.”

It was my turn to order. Neil excused himself to the washroom. I wondered what Len looked like. I pictured a big black handsome hunk of a man, laid-back and loud, a cigar in his mouth, dynamite in bed. I thought about asking Neil who was staggering his great bulk towards me, his breathing heavy, and eyes bloodshot.

“Christ!” he said, “I feel like shit”.

“Honey, you look like shit. Sit down and catch your breath before you keel over.”

“It’s so nice to be complimented”.

“Any time.”

“We’d best drink up. I need to get home. My leg’s killing me.”

One day Neil took himself in to hospital while I was on vacation. I was only a week away and wished I’d been there for him. Seems no one was, not least his estranged brother. By the time I got home Neil was too sick to receive visitors. I never saw him again. He died a week later and before I could ask about the funeral Neil’s brother had him unceremoniously cremated. Probably dumped his ashes. Wouldn’t surprise me. Still, one good thing he didn’t do was honour his executive duties. He came once to Neil’s place and snooped around, then simply phoned next day to say he was too sick to take care of things and would I see to Neil’s apartment.

Not a joyous job I can tell you. Neil hadn’t exactly been house-proud. The fact is everything got hauled out to the dumpster. The walls ran with nicotine when we washed them and the cupboards stank like stale ashtrays. We ripped them out in the end. But in the midst of all that debris I found a photo album. It had sleeves for about 20 pictures but there were just two. On the first page a young black man, slightly petite, immaculate in a white suit, smiled down lovingly at a slender youth seated before him. His manicured right hand rested, a little firmly I thought, upon Pretty Boy’s shoulder as he posed for the photographer and posterity. In the second picture, on the final page, sat a fat figure in drag in a downtown bar, his blue-rinse wig dishevelled, and a cigarette limp in his left hand. I had to look twice to make sure it was Neil.

-30-