Every time he protests, “It¹s not the same as it used to be,”
I know exactly what he means. When we lived here before, there were the great churches of dance–Twilo, The Tunnel, Roxy–shirtless nights spent in sweat and lights and the relentless thump of Junior Vasquez. And nothing else mattered. When we moved back five months ago, he knew those clubs were long gone. Hell, the whole notion of bars seems to have vanished, giving way to apps that take the place of a cold beer in dim lights, but I guess being here makes him miss those places that much more.
He’d be fifty-three today. Would we still have gone to those dance clubs so he could drink too much beer and show a gathering crowd how moving to music should really be done? Probably not, but I¹d like to think I would¹ve found someplace to surprise him, asking the DJ to play Sunscreem, watching him get lost in the sound, twirl in perfect rhythm, his heart free and happy.
Would we still be together after all of these years? I don¹t know, but
if we weren¹t, I know I¹d call him today and wish him the best
birthday ever, if I could, and call him my Guyster.
“It¹s not the same as it used to be!” Indeed, Billy, it¹s not.