"The market dictates that there is simply no longer a market for Buddy's." Vagaries of "the market" would be even less kind to lesbian bars. |
1987
George Hislop's bar empire, modest as it was, got smaller this summer. In April at Buddy's the pool table had been taken out and more female staff hired in an effort, Xtra said, to try for a "homey, relaxed atmosphere" and "discourage the 'rough trade' kind of clientele." It didn't work. By now there were lots of spots conducive to conversation -- but where you could dance, too. The bar for "everybody" was losing out to more specialized venues. As Rick Stenhouse, co- owner of Boots as well as Buddy's (where, in fact, there were eight of them) said, "The market dictates that there is simply no longer a market for Buddy's." After more than nine years as a community institution, the place closed its doors on Saturday, August 29. It soon reopened them, catering to a student crowd from nearby Ryerson -- "purely an economic decision," it was said. Gay people were still welcome; few showed up. But that space would see gay life again. *** Places catering to lesbians were even more prone to economic vagaries. In Xtra this July Gillian Rodgerson tracked many comings and goings: "Here Today, Gone Tomorrow." Felines, on Richmond, mainly for women, had just changed its name to Finnegan's Roadhouse, seeking a more mixed crowd. Its owners said they couldn't keep their "exclusive, upscale" place afloat serving just "a professional lesbian clientele." Earlier The Purple Onion on Parliament Street had given over its basement lounge three nights a week for a lesbian club called Lois Lane. It lasted four months.The Onion, though, would become The Rose, one of the city's longest lasting lesbian bars. Rumors opened on Cumberland in Yorkville in October 1985, soon serving mostly women -- even if doing Dynasty Nights, that TV spectacle of bitchy glitz more often on in gay men's bars. It fell to the Yorkville curse, gone by June 1986. Score 100 had briefly thrived at 100 Bond Street, but now it was gone, too. The sole winner was The Chez Moi on Hayden, so crowded that the doorman often turned women away, sometimes rudely, or shunted them downstairs to the smaller Chez Too, known to regulars as "The Dungeon." For a while The Chez was the only place for lesbians, gay men sometimes with them, if rarely. That particular economics of scarcity could work in their favour: Craig Patterson, often there with Gillian, picked up not a few of the few men at The Chez. The place would shut down in August 1989, so suddenly that even its manager didn't see it coming. Its owner had sold the building to a developer, for demolition. The Rose, open by then, became The (one) Lesbian Bar, at least for some time. But it, at least, survived. It's there to this day, if now as Pope Joan. *** | ||
Just weeks after that garden party, Bill Lewis was gravely ill. He'd known he was unwell & he'd guessed why.
Billy knew AIDS, in his
|
In mid September, parties behind, an old boyfriend refound, life took a swift turn.
Less than two months after that party for Gerald, Bill Lewis was gravely ill. He'd known he was unwell and he'd guessed why. Bill knew AIDS. It was around him in life and every day at work: he headed a team at the University of Toronto recently granted $150,000 in federal money to do research on AIDS. But he didn't want to face it, wanted to go on working -- as, in 1982, I had told him I would want to. Billy was a nervous little man, if a brave one. He had been one of Winnipeg's earliest gay activists, out with just 10 others in tiny Steinbach, Manitoba in July 1974, picketting a company that had refused to print Gays for Equality's Understanding Homosexuality. At Toronto General a doctor said Bill was hyperventilating. "It's all right," he panted. "I hyperventilate normally." He got through scientific presentations by popping Valium beforehand. *** I was back at the hospital six times, I think. On my third visit his room was empty but for an orderly masked and gowned and looking scared, scrubbing everything with Javex. "Get out!" he barked, panic in his voice. At the nurses' station I discovered Bill had been moved to the Intensive Care Unit. I found Michael Lynch there; he said Bill was on a respirator, terrified. Michael was due to pick up Bill's parents at the airport, in from Winnipeg. He asked if I could come back at 11:00 and if no one else was there stay the night. I went to The Barn, had a coffee, and went back. I didn't have to stay; Gerald was there by then. He'd be there the next three nights, all night. On my next trip a nurse turned me away: there had been too many visitors. I got in the next two nights. We had to wear gowns; the more insistent nurses pushed masks and gloves on us, too. Michael refused to mask while Bill was conscious. But now, whether he was or not no one could tell: he'd been put on a paralytic drug to keep his body from fighting the respirator. Even if he knew we were there he couldn't tell us, not even with the blink of an eye. Going in one night I found myself thinking: maybe he's dead; maybe I won't have to do this. Robert Trow later told me he'd felt the same way. But, walking into that room -- its only sound the hiss of the respirator; its decor banks of monitors and an overhead rack full of IV bags, Billy wired and tubed to all of them; its one light bright but aimed at his feet to spare his eyes (they'd creep open and he couldn't close them) -- there, suddenly, I was no longer afraid. I wrote in that letter of September 14th:
*** | ||
If Bill had lived for a time with AIDS rather than dying of it so suddenly, if he'd had to figure his own death into the awful equation of this disease, would he have lost his resolve to resist panic?
None of us ever had a chance to find out. But I think not.
|
I was writing that letter all through this. We had all rallied to him. Michael called Bill's friends; many gathered in a vigil on the lawn below his window. We met often in Michael's living room. It could feel like a collective meeting of old, even Robin Hardy there, in town from New York. Michael Pearl was, too, he of those early gay lib days back in 1971, since then Bill's lover for a time. And a man named Sean, from England; Bill had met him in a bar in Amsterdam and they'd fallen in love. It was Sean who last gave up hope, holding onto visions of Bill recovering in his care. Peggy Lewis, as small and nervous as her son, made her peace sooner. She had kept a notepad to record questions to ask when meeting with doctors. At one of those meetings they said they'd never seen anyone survive with lung damage as severe as Bill's. Michael saw her write on that pad: "Let him go." In an earlier moment where a nurse challenged Michael's place in this, Peg had pointed to him and said: "This is the man in charge. Not me. Not my husband. Him." After Billy died we met in his kitchen, planning his memorial and writing the program. I typeset it; we copied and folded it at ACT at 11:30 one night, Ed Jackson there, and Roger Spalding: "just like a subscription stuffing party," I told Jane, "the old routines a comfort." The service was held September 19 at University College. Under Bill's name on the program we'd put: "Son, Lover, Friend, Teacher and Scientist." The many people there had known him variously in some of these roles, in others not. Four speakers in turn addressed each one; Michael Lynch did Lover and Friend. I wrote Bill's obituary for Xtra. I recalled his 1982 article in The Body Politic, where he'd urged us as a community to resist panic in the face of AIDS.
*** | ||
I don't like funerals coloured by the smarmy niceness of liberal religion. Still, I did like being there, with those men I knew only from The Barn. If there's holiness in life, surely that's where I find it, not in solemn chapels.
|
Bill's obit took most of a page in Xtra. On the rest of it was another, for a man whose funeral I'd been at two days before Billy died. I didn't tell Jane about that, my letter of the 19th getting too long. But I'd meant to: the story was in that earlier draft I didn't send.
*** | ||
Paul, who'd always said he wanted to die before David, now faced knowing he was almost sure to survive him, David likely gone in a year or two, or less.
It would turn out more years than that. Even blind, David would -- doggedly -- still be David.
|
In late October Barry and I had dinner with Paul Pearce and David Newcome. Barry talked more than I did, Paul spurring him on in his usual way. Paul talked to me about Barry after that; friends often, perhaps rightfully, exercise the privilege of advising on one's affections. Barry asked me later what he'd said. "He likes you, but said you were a very serious boy." "Boy?!" he shot back. "I'll get him for that!" Barry was 27 but, certainly to me, no boy. David liked Barry too, mostly for his lanky ease and tight jeans. "I bet he's got a big dick," he said. He was right: I'd found out the first night we were together, sitting up in bed, our legs tangled together, each of us with his eyes locked on the other's. I reached into his briefs, found the head of his stiff cock, slid my hand down. And down. I must have looked surprised: he gave me a gleeful, wicked grin. That was the last time David saw Barry. We'd be together again, but by then David could see nothing at all. Paul called after that dinner, worried: David wanted to be tested for HIV. He called again to ask if I knew about neurological effects of AIDS: David said he was losing his sight. I suggested it might be cytomegalovirus, CMV. It often caused blindness in people with AIDS; there was a drug to treat it. But it usually struck very late on. This was too fast. They went together for tests at Sunnybrook Hospital. Dr Anita Rachlis did think it was AIDS related, but not CMV. It turned out something much more rare: herpes zoster -- the same virus that causes chicken pox -- infecting David's retinas and optic nerves. It was untreatable and would progress. Within weeks, David was totally blind. I wrote to Jane:
As it turned out David would be with us, very much himself even if blind, for six years and three months more. *** | ||
Homosexuality was unmentionable, even in a context as ovbious as AIDS. For openly gay men the message was clear:
|
Governments were taking AIDS seriously now: HIV was showing up in a few heterosexuals, mostly women. That got them off their butts and with a classic response to hot issues: they threw money at it. Their pitch, however, was not well aimed. Earlier this year the City of Toronto had announced its AIDS Operational Plan, set to spend $11.5 million over two and a half years. In the July 31 issue of Xtra I had taken that plan apart. Of its total budget, 68 percent was allotted to education efforts. And "the largest share of our resources," the plan said, should go to "the education of the general public." The campaign began with big bus shelter posters and a matching brochure. "Avoid AIDS," they read. "You can prevent it. Find out how." Eyeing the viewer from amidst those words -- with a Meaningfully Serious Look -- was a couple, young and attractive: a man and a woman. City fathers were happy to adopt a line the AIDS movement had long used to avoid being ignored altogether: "AIDS is not a gay disease." There were 258 diagnosed cases of AIDS in the city, 97 percent of them among gay men. Half were dead. Of the 1,800 others who had tested positive for HIV, 48 were women, few if any of the men heterosexual. The city plan defined "drug users, prostitutes, homosexual and bisexual men, and individuals with multiple sex partners" -- the people most at risk -- as "special target groups." In fact, "hard to reach target groups," meaning that they didn't know how to find people like us and didn't know how to talk to us when they did. They were counting on community groups like ACT to do that work. Wisely: we certainly knew how to do it better than they did. But, of their total education budget just 25 percent was to support community based work. ACT itself would get seven percent. ACT was the only group dealing specifically with gay men -- but often with "the general public" too: more than half the calls to its Hotline were from heterosexuals. Ninety seven percent of the cases: less than seven percent of the money. I called the piece "Low Budget Lives." The idea that ACT should deal with the fags -- not a bad one if we'd had the resources, and if we could reach every man in the city, gay identified or not, who had sex with other men -- had a darker subtext. Public health types said they wanted to stop AIDS among heterosexuals "while there's still a chance." Behind that one could hear: for gay men it's too late. A quarter of them in the city were estimated to be infected with HIV. As for the rest, well, ACT will save them. Or they'll die. I ended that piece:
*** | ||
The city's promo saw "the general public" as solely heterosexual. Worse, it implied that even they never did anything more kinky than traditional fucking. But there is no such thing as a sexual practice distinct to homosexuality.
As homo pioneer Harry Hay once said: "Gay people are different from everybody else except in bed." Harry Hay
Stuart Timmons: The Trouble with Harry Hay, Founder of the Modern Gay Movement. Alyson, 1990. A biography.
Will Roscoe, ed: Radical Gay: Gay Liberation in the Words of its Founder, Harry Hay. Beacon Press, 1996. A collection of Hay's writings.
Among the pioneers of the Mattachine Society, Los Angeles, 1950, Harry Hay (b 1912), a former Communist, was later ousted by those eager to seek tolerance & "respectability" by pretending that gay people were the same as everybody else except in bed. He became a Radical Faerie critical of "the chimera of Gay civil rights ... become a Thunder Mug planted to geraniums in the middle class parlours of Gay Democratic Clubs."
|
Later I did a brief to the Board of Health, political overseers of the department. For credibility it was from Pink Triangle Press but the ideas were mine, the same ones in that article if, given the medium, more formally put. Not that I hedged key points. One of the more liberal motives for aiming AIDS education at heterosexuals had been to emphasize that "AIDS is not a gay disease." "In the public mind," I wrote, "AIDS is a gay disease. Ignoring this well entrenched connection fools no one. On the contrary, it reinforces the stigmatization of homosexuality by declaring it unmentionable, even in a context as obvious as AIDS." For those in the closet, it said: Homosexuality is still a secret. For openly gay men, I said, "the message is direct, demeaning: you do not exist. The City can only confront the stigmatizing association of homosexuality with AIDS by acknowledging homosexuality and refusing to stigmatize it." Governments had also bought into the gay movement's own false if strategically useful construction: that the world could be neatly divided between gay and straight. I did a round of Kinsey 101, citing his 1948 study, Sexual Behavior in the Human Male. Only a small percentage of men he surveyed were exclusively gay, but more than a third had had sex with other men. Many such men couldn't be reached in gay venues, only as part of "the general public." Yet the city's campaign assumed the "public" was exclusively heterosexual. Worse, even for heterosexuals, it implied they never did anything more kinky than missionary position fucking. I wrote:
I relished tossing all those dirty if euphemistic terms in front of the Board of Health. Straight people knew perfectly well they did such things. But too many of them would rather die -- or let others die -- than admit it. Pioneering gay activist Harry Hay once put it more succinctly: "Gay people are different from everybody else except in bed." I'd later send that brief to the head of the Ontario Public Education Panel on AIDS. Talking with him on the phone I found he had misread one of its recommendations: that one of the city's planned quarterly campaigns be directed exclusively, and positively, to openly gay men. He took it to mean that a quarter of the entire budget should be devoted to us. This man was a potential ally -- Kevin Orr was on that panel with him and said he was alright. I wrote him a letter, trying to be nice but not pulling my punches.
*** | ||
I'd stand in The Barn, watching, writing safer sex promo in my head -- not exhortations, but acknowledgments of who my people are, what they know, the reality they face with what is, finally, a most unreasonable strength.
|
Kevin Orr left ACT in September, wanting to go on to other things, maybe back to school to study history. At his going away party Joan Anderson said he'd founded AIDS education in Canada. Kevin said no: his whole community -- The Body Politic, Michael Lynch, Bill Lewis, Ed Jackson and I all part of it -- had made that possible. That was just days before Billy died. Walking home from that party I cried, as I hadn't with Bill. I had told Michael Lynch that when I cried it was less from grief than from something else: a love for all of us and all we'd been privileged to do; a love for the strength of my people; a commitment to them; a hope for them. I cried, oddly (well, perhaps not), out of joy. "It's not death that's too much with us right now," I wrote Jane. "It's life and its sheer wonder." Life includes death, as our ancestors had always known. Only in the last century or so, even then only among the most privileged of us, have the dying and the dead been whisked out of sight to be handled by professionals. When people who had HIV, even those who had it in their lives if not their bodies, said "Why me?" I often wanted to say (though I rarely did): Because you're human, just like anyone else. And this is human life.
*** It was love I'd been on about to Jane. I hadn't lost it. If anything my passions had grown, both angry and loving. Standing by the dance floor at The Barn, I marvelled at the men there even more than I had before, truly taking in their beauty as I basked, in this man, in that one, dancing. Not simply for his grace, his movement, the rhythm of his breathing -- but for the wondrous fact that he could dance and move and breathe. After my nights by Billy's cool steel bed, his body moved only by a machine, it was a gift I no longer took for granted. Go on to 1988: Jan-Mar / Go back to Contents
This page: http://www.rbebout.com/bar/1987b.htm
|