by Bob Smith
We’re especially observant on Leroy. Michael heard Arthur Laurents supposedly lives on the block. So far we’ve not seen the famously opinionated writer and theater director, but I like to think someday our wish will be fulfilled, and he’ll condemn or congratulate us for letting Bozzie pee in front of his house. Either would thrill Michael and me, but Bozzie would likely give him a cursory sniff, as he’s only impressed by celebrities bearing biscuits.
We always pick up coffee at a restaurant on the corner of Hudson and grab an empty coffee cup for Bozzie’s water. As we approach the West Side Highway, Bozzie walks faster. He loves the river.
Across the highway, we sit on the park benches facing the water, sipping our coffees as I comment on the passing joggers.
“He’s hot! I love the way his bicep looks like it’s testing the tensile strength of his Celtic tattoo.”
“Wow! He’s got guts—literally and figuratively—to be jogging shirtless.”
“Hmmm. Why would someone jog pushing a stroller? Isn’t that teaching your kid to be a layabout?”
My judgments, though borderline catty, are only designed to make Michael laugh, and my tone is never harsh, as it’s impossible to forget, while they exercise, I’m the bench potato.
We don’t sit for long, quickly losing interest in watching New Yorkers using their leisure time to run. It’s like fish making an effort to swim three times a week. We walk out onto the pier—a plank of park jutting into the river. It has trees and a lawn, benches and tables, and architecturally designed canopies offering shade. On summer days, the pier feels like New York’s gay backyard, filled with shirtless hotties tanning on the grass. For me, it always evokes the Januslike sensation of being a middle-aged gay man. One face looks back and remembers my strong jaw and tight body, while the other face looks forward to a double chin and the love handles that dare not speak their name. Despite my generosity with the biscuits, in the four years Bozzie’s lived with us, he’s lost weight and looks fit, and I like to think he holds his head high as he parades past the buff-eteria.
We take a different route back to our apartment, but to make the trip easier on Bozzie, it’s always the same different route. We cut down Barrow Street and cross Hudson and enter my favorite block in the Village. Commerce Street curves into Barrow, and at the junction of the two are a pair of matching town houses with mansard roofs separated by a yard. They’re my favorite houses in Manhattan, and I want to live in one of them.
I once said to Michael, “If I had a billion dollars, I’d buy both these houses. We’d live in one and the other would be for visiting friends.”
Michael looked at me as if I were an idiot. “No,” he said. “You’d live in one. I’d live in the other.”
This was a comment on my housekeeping. But our therapy session with Bozzie has been a success since we’re no longer fighting with each other but are teasing each other. We both laughed.
On our return, when we turn down Bleecker, Bozzie picks up the pace. He knows we’re close to home. In fact, he will pull against Michael if he tries to take a different route. Our walks always make me feel how blessed I am to have both Michael and Bozzie in my life. Michael has been unshakably supportive, humorous, and patient about my illness, without ever letting me forget: coffee grounds left in the sink, not so supportive.
A dog’s year is a long time for someone with ALS, and there have been moments of anguish since my diagnosis. My doctor wanted to put me on an antidepressant immediately, but I haven’t felt depressed. I actually spend most days feeling happy. My contentment has astounded my friends, all of whom are on antidepressants. It’s got to be rough for them. Who wouldn’t be bummed out if a guy whose prognosis is three to five years is almost always in a better mood than you?
Bozzie and Michael have made me realize I’ve always led a dog’s life. I’m messy and, according to Michael, leave my hair everywhere in the bathroom. I like a routine. I’m content to eat the same meals day in and day out for years at a time. (Right now, my lunch for the past eight months has been an Otto Goodness turkey sandwich and smoky tomato soup from Murray’s cheese shop on Bleecker. The staff—Nina, Sydney, and Catherine—always say, “Hi, Bob. The usual?” which always makes my tail wag.) I’m intensely loyal to my friends and family. (I growl fiercely when my loved ones are threatened. When a friend received one lone bad review of his otherwise highly praised book on Goodreads, I became enraged and posted a scathing review of his critic’s poor grammar.) I’m with dogs in ignoring all threats of damnation and never feeling guilty about having fun. If Bozzie wants to same-sex sniff another dog, he doesn’t worry about some bigoted desert hick named Leviticus. (Many religions believe dogs don’t have souls and won’t make it to heaven. That reason alone would make me give those faiths the heave-ho.)
Like a dog, I don’t have any doubts about what I’m doing with my life. Ever since I was sixteen, if I write every morning and think of something clever or funny, it makes me happy. I’m content if Michael lets me hump his leg once a week, and if you bring me a lime cornmeal cookie from Amy’s Bread, I’ll be your friend for life.
There has been one significant change in my personality since I began measuring my life in dog years. I no longer have any time or patience for mean-spirited idiots. If you profess support for Republicans, doubts about global warming, eagerness to drill in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, defend torture and marriage inequality, or oppose universal health care in my presence, you’ll quickly discover that, unlike Bozzie, I bite.
It’s not like dogs don’t have fears. A dropped fork rattles Bozzie, and I’m afraid of dying horribly. But Bozzie doesn’t let his fears rule him, and neither do I. Bozzie is proof that nightmares aren’t always a life sentence. He was a lab dog and yet ended up living happily with us. I remember when AIDS meant death and Communism would last forever but, like a dog, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I’ve always possessed Bozzie’s hard-earned optimism. It’s nose-to-the-ground practical and not at all sentimental.
You won’t get a treat every time you want one, but what’s wrong with going through life believing you might get a biscuit?
Juneau
I’ve performed stand-up comedy at major gay Prides across the country: New York, San Francisco, Boston, and Los Angeles. But my favorite Prides have been in smaller cities like Santa Fe and Boise—and the one I enjoyed the most—Juneau.
My introduction to Juneau was a Southeast Alaska Gay and Lesbian Alliance (SEAGLA) fundraiser for the following year’s Pride. I gave away my performance, but I didn’t care. I was writing a novel about Alaska and Juneau was a new Alaskan place for me—not reachable by road, you had to fly in or arrive by boat. My goal was to illuminate Alaska like the northern lights. When I see the northern lights, I think I’m in a magical place. That’s how I see Alaska.
My show raised the entire two-thousand-dollar budget for the Pride celebration in June. (Someday my ALS might hinder my ability to pat myself on the back, and that’s probably the loss of movement I’ll miss the most.)
I stayed at the Silverbow Inn, built in 1914—the same year Anchorage was founded. It looked like a store. My room was small but had cozy granny furniture including a rocking chair. New owners have modernized it, and I still would recommend staying there. Next door was the Silverbow Bakery. They serve great coffee, which gave my mornings a destination. On that trip, I made new friends: Chris Beanes and his husband, Jeremy Neldon. That night Chris, Jeremy, and I went to dinner at the Hangar on the Wharf, where we drank Alaskan White Ale brewed in Juneau. The Hangar is a restaurant where you can watch floatplanes land and take off. Though it’s casual dining, if you order their tempura halibut with chips, you’ll immediately want to move to Juneau.
These guys weren’t cheechakos, newbies to Alaska. I learned Jeremy was Jewish and grew up in New Jersey while Chris was Mexican American and grew up in Portland, Oregon, where they met. Jeremy was an elementary school teacher and Chris was a city planner. They hiked, kayaked, and
camped, which seemed natural in Alaska, but I wanted to know how they got here.
Jeremy made the move before Chris. He said, “When I was ten years old, I used to read books with photos of spawning salmon and grizzly bears . . .”
“I was the same ten-year-old!” I interrupted. “I was thrilled by the creation of Redwood National Park when I was ten.”
“It was in college when I became obsessed with Alaska,” said Jeremy. “My fraternity brothers said working for a cannery in Alaska was the perfect summer job. So we went to Valdez and pitched our tents on Hippie Hill right behind the harbor. Eight hours of looking at fish guts couldn’t change the happiness I felt hiking lonely glacial valleys, climbing snowcapped mountains, or gazing at the sea during the long Alaskan twilight. All I thought was: how I can stay here longer? We quit our slime line jobs the next sunny day and slapped together a road trip to Denali. Backpacking among the Dall sheep was followed by a psychedelic weekend at the Talkeetna Bluegrass Festival. Leaving Alaska that summer, I promised myself I would be back as soon as I graduated.”
“You didn’t give the psychedelic drugs to the sheep?” I asked. “They would be jumping off the mountains.”
“No we didn’t,” Jeremy said. “A corner of the U.S. Geological Survey map that returned with me had the words ‘Wrangell-St. Elias National Park and Preserve’ printed across a stretch of roadless mountain. I put it up on my wall back at school and stared at it throughout my senior year until I figured out the perfect return: an internship through the Student Conservation Association. I could be paired with a backcountry ranger for an entire summer and really get way, way out into the wilds of Alaska and a corner of the largest protected wilderness on earth.”
“Was your ranger a hunk?” I asked.
“Yes, he was. But a straight guy. I did my research on the park, pestered the SCA over the phone, and got exactly what I wanted: a chance to see such raw beauty and to learn how people lived within it. I was on a plane back to Anchorage the week after graduation, May 1994. What would I do after that ended, my parents wanted to know? Stay as close to the Alaska bush as I could. How exactly, I had no idea!”
“What got you to Juneau?” I asked.
“My time with the backcountry rangers in Wrangell-St. Elias National Park had been transformative,” Jeremy said. “But after that, I got fired from my roadhouse cook duties in Chickaloon, was run off my little cabin on the far side of the Matanuska River at gunpoint by an off-the-wagon Vietnam Vet, and shoveled heaps of wet snow off more than a few flat roofs with an Anchorage ex-con to earn my daily bread. When the call came that I had been accepted into the AmeriCorps program in Juneau as a trail crew member, I saw my escape.”
“Did the ex-con lift weights in prison?” I asked.
“No, he had a big beer gut. I only had to get there. Driving the Alcan Highway in summer can be a hardy adventure, but the middle of January was another matter. Luckily I had an Alaskan special: a four-wheel-drive Toyota Tercel with a melted third gear, no heat, and an enormous hole in the windshield surrounded by a spiderweb of cracks.
“When I pulled into the frosty glow of the Tok Tesoro Station it was forty below. The fill-up would have to go on my one questionable credit card. I pulled off the two sleeping bags I wore and headed into the warm shack. The bearded bunny-booted attendant frowned: declined. After some pathetic pleading, he called Visa for verbal authorization.
“The free coffee at the Beaver Creek border crossing into Canada kept me warm for another few hours. But I was starved as dawn slowly crept over the towering Kluane mountains and Haines Junction. There was a roadside German café with smoke rising from a pipe. I walked in not knowing what would happen. Behind the hostess stand was my salvation: an old-fashioned carbon paper credit card swiper! Oh, baby! Big, greasy trucker’s breakfast!
“Descending from the pass back into Alaska, the trees were bigger, the air was moist and warm, and the cute little ferry, Aurora, was ready to glide me to the kind, open embrace of Juneau—where a nice clean room in a suburban duplex and a month’s advanced pay awaited me. At the time, it was the best of all possible worlds.”
Jeremy loved Alaska and had been courageous about exploring it. This struck me as the attitude to nurture when you’re in Alaska.
I turned to his husband. “Chris, what brought you to Juneau?”
“I came up here to spend Thanksgiving with Jeremy,” he said. “Two months later I moved here.”
“He’s not a lesbian,” said Jeremy. Chris and I chuckled.
“Who started Pride here?” I asked.
“We did with our friend Sara Boario,” said Chris. “She was president of SEAGLA.”
“SEAGLA sounds like a gay and lesbian birdwatchers’ club,” I said.
“Chris was sick of the underground queer scene,” said Jeremy.
“I didn’t come out of the closet,” he said, “to live in a walk-in closet.”
“Bob,” said Jeremy, “the two guys who gave us miles to fly you up here are having a party. Want to come?”
“Like I’m going to turn down the chance to party in Alaska,” I said.
The party was in an upscale neighborhood near the water in Juneau. We drove there from downtown. It had twenty gay men and five lesbians. We talked about how many of the businesses in downtown Juneau refused to put up signs promoting Pride. One lesbian said, “We should ask the refusers if we can put another sign in their window: Fucking Homophobic Business.”
When we left after a couple of hours, there was an eerie but not scary sound in the air.
“What’s that noise?” I asked.
“Humpback whales,” said Jeremy.
We listened to their vulnerable songs coming from the nearby ocean. It was like a bunch of fifty-two-foot, seventy-nine-thousand-pound cats purring. I could have stayed there all night because I’m a whale junkie. My addiction started in Provincetown—with a whale-watching tour to see humpback whales. The whales breached around our boat, and I was hooked. I longed to stay and listen, but I had to put on a show the following evening.
My show was at the Silverbow Inn. They had a large room attached to a tiny bar. The crowd filled the seats. I was starting to feel less cheechako and decided to do some jokes about Alaska. My first entry was “I’m from the only place in the Lower 48—Buffalo—where Alaskans ask, ‘How do you take those winters?’” And the joke worked.
The next day in Juneau, it snowed. Two inches covered the city. Chris and Jeremy took me to see Mendenhall Glacier before my flight back to Los Angeles. I’d seen glaciers before. Old ice is thrilling the first time, but glaciers are like snowmen; since they don’t have personalities, they’re basically the same. We first visited the Mendenhall Glacier visitor center, which is all windows for the indoor outdoorsy.
Then we hiked a trail to the glacier. We were the only people hiking the trail and then we climbed some wooden stairs. On the landing Jeremy exclaimed, “We just missed a bear!”
There were bear prints in the snow. Freshly made. It looked like we just missed getting clawed or chomped. We looked in the forest surrounding the trail but didn’t see any bruins. Even the bear was tired of antique ice.
I wouldn’t be back in Juneau for almost two years. During that time, there was a big hullabaloo about a PFLAG exhibit at Juneau’s public library. The day after it went up, it was taken down. The title of the exhibit was “Notable Gays, Lesbians, Bisexuals, and Transgendered People: Always a Part of Our History and Culture.” As local writer Dixie Hood wrote in the Juneau Empire, the title was called “inflammatory,” “offensive,” and “too in your face” by the head librarian, Carol McCabe. Carol even said, “The display case should be suitable for all ages. What if a child doesn’t understand those words and asked their parent what they meant?” When a librarian is against learning, your town is fucked. Carol had said she was “chicken” and “would rather fight with PFLAG than with religious fundamentalists.”
I returned to Juneau a year after the library fiasco
. Jeremy offered to take me kayaking. We drove to Mendenhall Lake, which I knew was formed by the glacier. We saw a bald eagle perched on a branch, which distracted me. I didn’t ask how to stop my kayak with my paddles or about hypothermia if I capsized. Alaska is so filled with wildlife, it makes you forget about your life. I was either an idiot or brave.
It’s a conundrum I often face. ALS is a life-threatening illness— but I don’t let that stop me. Is it stupid letting your disease run your life? I think so. I’ve had ALS for ten years. I’m still seeing friends, going to movies and plays, taking my pals on hikes in Provincetown to see wild lady’s slipper orchids, even though I can’t eat or talk. So in retrospect, my kayaking wasn’t stupid at all, it was living a fun life.
We headed toward the glacier. There was also a big iceberg. I knew that you weren’t supposed to get close to icebergs since they can flip over on you. Jeremy said, “The rudder on your kayak has fallen off.”
That’s when I understood that I didn’t know how to steer with my paddles. I was headed straight for the iceberg! I tried back-paddling, which slowed me down. A minute later there was a clunk. I was actually under an iceberg ceiling. The iceberg—the size of a cottage—loomed over me like a schoolteacher about to give me detention for misusing a kayak. Jeremy paddled over and told me how to paddle to get away from the frozen booby trap waiting to sink me. We paddled back to shore with relief wrapped around my head in the shape of a halo.
I was staying with Jeremy and Chris. Their apartment was on the highest road above Juneau. There were steep wooden stairways that allowed you to shortcut walking down the road to downtown. So once we got back from kayaking, I checked out the city, feeling grateful that I wasn’t killed by prehistoric ice.