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Today is the 10th anniversary of Tony’s death. In so many ways 10 years
seem like a very long time and in that span so many other things have
come and gone. There have been the beginnings and endings of films.
There have been the beginnings and endings of relationships. There
have been the beginnings and endings of beliefs. But, perhaps most
markedly, there have been the beginnings and endings of other lives. While all these beginnings and endings have touched my heart and left an indelible footprint on the makeup of my soul, the ending that consistently stirs me the most is Tony’s death. Yet, after 10 years, the memories of my childhood friend have started to fade. Admittedly, it’s only a slight discoloration of the once vibrant hue that was Tony. But, none-the-less, certain details are no longer as readily accessible as they once seemed to be. This shadowing makes me think of Tony’s burial and standing in the cemetery with another childhood friend. At the very end of the service, when we were all filing back to our cars, in that moment between a prolonged goodbye and moving on, she gave me a hug and said, "You will always have all the great memories." Sometimes I have my doubts. Will I, in fact, always have those memories to call upon? Will Tony always be around? This summer I’m participating in an intense study of the Psalms. It’s truly been a humbling experience as I’m reading and studying with four biblical scholars. We are using the Tanakh, the original text translated from Hebrew into English, to guide our discussions. As I’ve pondered the questions surrounding my memories of Tony, I’ve found myself in the midst of this study group looking for answers. Of course, in the Psalms, there is a great deal of fodder for questions about death and dying. But, one verse in one Psalm somehow helped lighten my struggle. In verse 39 of the 78th Psalm, Asaph writes, For He remembered that they were human, simply a wind that passes and does not come again. So, maybe, what I’m really troubled by is the fact that, my thoughts that Tony will come again, are fading. That I’m finally starting to let go of the dreamed possibility that I’ll meet Tony for lunch at the Corner Bistro, or that I’ll sit next to him on a dock and we will spend the afternoon dangling our feet in the water and laughing about life, or that I’ll hear his laughter in the middle of a crowded room. While those times have truly passed and will not come again, my other childhood friend was indeed correct. I always have the great memories. After all, each time I look at his photo on my desk, or walk by his former apartment, or happen on to a postcard he wrote from a far off place, I feel that pull, that loss, that tinge that I felt the moment he died in my arms 10 long years ago. Those are memories I will cling to and try never to let pass. As you know, one of the ways I cling to my memories of Tony is that each year, on the anniversary of his death, I pluck a story from my Tony Diaries and share with a small circle of people I love. On this 10th Anniversary of the death of Anthony Carole Cooper here’s a memory: From the Tony Diaries- The phone rang, I rolled over to look at the clock and it was 5:15. For the most part, it was still dark outside but I could see a small strip of light in the morning sky. I put my head under the pillow, sighed a loud sigh, and thought this could be one person and one person only: Tony! Leonard: Good morning. Tony: You Son of a Bitch, why don’t you ever answer your phone? Leonard: Good morning, Tony. Should I tell Mother what you just called her? Tony: Ok you smart-ass; I need for you to do me a favor? Leonard: Sure, what is it that I can do for you at 5:20 in the morning? Tony: Look, if you don’t want to help me, that’s fine. Leonard: Tony, come on, stop that. What do you need? Tony: Well, it’s Ash Wednesday and I want to go to mass. You’re my only friend who believes in all this shit so I thought you’d be willing to help me get to mass today. Leonard: I’d be happy to take you to mass. What time? Tony: I want to go to 12:00 mass. Leonard: Hmm, that’s a bit of a problem. I have a luncheon meeting at Children’s Television Workshop. Can we pick another time? Tony: I really wanted to go to 12:00 mass because I thought we’d have lunch at the Corner Bistro. Something about Tony wanting to go to the Corner Bistro for lunch pulled at my heartstrings. It was our old haunt. We had laughed, we had cried, we had argued, and we had shared many stories while sitting at the bar at the Corner Bistro. He always ate two large cheeseburgers and a large bowl of soup. I was always in awe of his appetite. Those were the days when he was a strapping, gorgeous man. Now, he was emaciated and could barely walk. Due to his failing health, we had not been to the Corner Bistro in over three years. I heard in his voice the need to re-connect to a location where he could remember stronger years. So, I said to myself, “Leonard, you have to do this!” Leonard: You know what? Let me call the producer of Sesame Street and cancel the meeting. I bet I can reschedule for next week. I’ll pick you up at 11:30. Will that give us enough time? Tony: Leonard, thanks. It means a lot to me. You better come at 11:00 because I want to go to Saint Ignatius on 14th. The Spanish priest is hot and I want him to rub ashes on my head. Leonard: Why did I know this wasn’t about Ash Wednesday at all? Tony: Now, if you are going to start in on all that, you can just not come by. Leonard: Yap, yap, yap. I’ll see you at 11:00. It was a bitterly cold March day. As I walk down Hudson Street to Tony’s apartment the wind from the river sent cold chills down my spine. I kept shivering as I always did in those days just before seeing Tony. His childhood eyes would peer out from behind a skeleton of a man. To delay our meeting just a few minutes, I walked up the four flights of stairs very slowly. At each landing I would recite the ditty I had heard Tony say for years, Just remember it’s all about fourteens and fours. 114 Perry, No. 4C, 10014. Somehow, that chant would always sooth me and make me ready for the visit. With the keys that I had for years, I let myself in the apartment. Leonard: Hello. It’s me. Tony: Damn you. No one gives me any privacy anymore. The nurse, the housekeeper, the pharmacist, you, you all just walk in the door like you owned the place. Did you ever hear of knocking? You son of a bitch. Leonard: Well, sounds to me like you could use some ashes and some time in church. But, before we go, let me help you get an extra sweater on. It’s really chilly outside. It had become customary, when we went out, that I would hoist him on my back and carry him down the steps. He was in so much pain that at every step he would moan and ask me to take it easy. We got outside and I hailed a taxi. Once we were in the taxi Tony stuck his cane through the window that divides the driver from the passengers and poked the driver on his shoulder. Tony: Take us to St. Ignatius on 14th. You’ll need to turn around and pull right in front of the church because I can’t walk. I’m a cripple and I need to get some ashes. Of course, it was always high drama with Tony. I was giggling in the backseat at his act. That is, until he took his cane and poked me in the leg. Leonard: Ouch! Why did you do that? Tony: I am a cripple, you know. So, shut the fuck up. I helped him out of the car and when I pulled him up I could see how very weak he was and could hear how comprised his breathing had become. I was starting to think I shouldn’t have agreed to take him out and was worried the cold wind would not be good for his health. I gently put my hand under his arm to help him in the church. He pulled it away and said, “I don’t want the hot Spanish priest seeing you hanging on me. You’re mostly an asset but not when it comes to picking up men.” We sat through a mass made beautiful with hundreds of candles along the alter and a children’s choir of sweet voices. The priest spoke some liturgical words about sacrifice at which point Tony leaned over and said, “You know, don’t you, that’s all bull shit?” At the time during the mass when the priest administered the ashes, I helped Tony to the alter. The priest said a blessing and made the sign of the cross on Tony’s forehead. Tony looked up and said, “Do you want to go to the Corner Bistro for lunch?” Leonard: Tony! The priest finished administering the ashes and walked back to Tony. He put his hands on Tony’s shoulders and said, “I’m fasting today. But, I’d love to go to lunch sometime.” The mass ended. The priest, the choir, the other people all left the chapel. Tony and I were all alone kneeling at the alter. The church was completely silent. Tony didn’t want to leave. He kept asking if we could stay just for a few more minutes. Then, just as the light from the late winter, afternoon sun shined on us through a stained glass window, Tony picked up his cane and pointed to a statue of Jesus. Tony: Now, if you mind your ps and qs, I should be seeing you very soon. I have had it real bad lately so don’t make it too tough on me in the end. Tony stood up and started walking out of the church. I choked-up and couldn’t hold back the tears and the residual smell of the incense made me feel like I was going to faint. I stood in the door of the church watching Tony hail a taxi and couldn’t stop crying. Tony: Come on. I’m leavin’ without you. Leonard: Don’t you dare! Tony: Do you mind if we take a rain check on the Corner Bistro? I’m not feeling so well and want to go home. Leonard: Ok. That's fine. On the way home, on the journey up the steps, on the mission to get Tony in his pajamas and make him comfortable, we didn’t speak a word. I made him a protein shake and served it along with his afternoon medicines. The silence continued for almost four hours. I just sat there next to his bed and watched him sleep and watched the afternoon sun fade in the western sky. Then he awoke. Tony: You know I AM going to die one of these days? Leonard: I know. I know. I just don’t want it to be now. I just don’t want it to be any time soon. I just don’t want it to be in 1997. Tony: My god, Leonard. Will you stop crying? I’m the one who is dying, not you? Leonard: That’s why I’m crying. But, I’m really sorry. I’ll stop. I think I’m just cold. You know how I get when I’m cold? Tony: It’s just too damn bad that priest had to fast today. Lunch with him probably would have done us both a world of good. I stood up and pressed the on button for the radio. The adagio from Brahms’ Violin Concerto in D major was playing on WQXR. I turned around and Tony had fallen back asleep. I tucked the blanket up around his chin, kissed him on his forehead, and let myself out. The sky was purple and orange and the cold wind had picked up a stronger gust. I walked up Hudson Street, turned on West Fourth, and just stopped in front of the Corner Bistro. I pulled the collar of my old brown barn jacket up around my neck and hoped for a time in the future when Tony and I would be having lunch at the bar. I leaned over and blew my warm breath on the window. In the foggy reflection, I took my finger and made a T. Then, I walked up the street and made my way home. |
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