We never know to what, where, or whom an event will lead us.
Back to the beginning
continued from part 2
They say it’s only when someone dies you fully know who they are. Death is the final page of the final chapter, and like a finished novel its total shape only comes into view at that moment.
There were certain things I knew about Jonah. I knew he had a beautiful, younger, life-partner. I knew he’d been my friend for eight years, supporting me during my hardest times in this city. I knew his loss would affect me structurally, on a foundation level. I knew he’d loved New York, as I did, had come here from another culture, as I had. And the last time I saw him I had known on some deep level it would be the last time I would see him. What I did not know was who he was to others.
◊♦◊
Making my way down the deep, three-tiered stairwell to the theater lobby was like slowly dropping into an ocean: Ten steps down, a small landing; ten steps down, another landing; ten steps down, the floor and its blue carpet textured with tiny red dots. Three of the walls were white. The fourth, behind the stairwell was red. Enormous, round, white pillars held up the ceiling. People swirled over the carpet greeting each other, smiled as they recognized a face, hugged a friend. I felt self-conscious. I knew no one.
Unmoored as I was I searched for an anchor and spotted a small table where they’d created a shrine with a number of Jonah’s personal objects. Beside it an easel displayed a photograph, a headshot of Jonah as I’d never seen him. Wearing a white doctor’s smock, his makeup was minimal, like a mime’s, and instead of smiling he looked serious. Too serious. Comically serious. On the end of his nose was a bright red rubber ball. He was “Dr. Know-Nothing,” his clown doctor character. I pictured him scurrying mute around sick children’s beds like something out of The Marx Brothers, putting his stethoscope to the television, taking the lampshade’s temperature, sending up the real doctors and their bewildering, frightening behavior to the kids and giving them something to laugh at while he made a sane comment about that sterile, insane place. So this is who he was to sick children, I thought. A sign on the table said “Take something.” I wanted to rake away a bagful of the objects, but stopped myself. I spotted a tiny patterned incense plate I’d seen every time I’d visited him. I carefully tucked it away and walked toward the entrance of the theater.
At the door a small, somber looking woman wearing a red clown nose handed me a program along with my own red clown nose. Inside I chose a seat up high, far back and to the left of the stage. The seats were covered in red fabric. Silver numbers were stamped to seat bottoms. I recognized Michael up front by his blond hair. The bleachers down to the left were packed with what I correctly assumed were his students. Friends and family filled the lower center and right bleachers. The rest flowed into the risers above. I estimated over two hundred people had come. Many were wearing their noses. I rolled the soft foam ball in my fingers and tried it on.
◊♦◊
The gay and theatrical communities have a lot of experience with memorial services. They know what they’re for and how to make them work. There was a small group of friends present who had bonded with Jonah when he arrived in New York in the seventies, and one of them ran the show, was the stage manager and host. An official from a hospital stepped to the microphone and talked about what wonderful work Jonah did there and how he would be missed. A group of Jonah’s fellow clown doctors spoke of him with the gravity of soldiers speaking of a fallen comrade. The head of the theater school at Circle in the Square talked of the great loss to his school, and stated that the legendary physical acting course Jonah developed and taught over the years would be renamed, “The Jonah Course.” What was evident was that my Jonah, my quiet personal friend, was a dynamic figure in theater and in the world of clowns. The guy was a star, and I’d never known.
The group of students beside the stage sang, “You’ve Got a Friend,” in harmony. A dancer presented a movement piece. People were coming and going onstage. Lost in my emotions, I found it hard to keep up with it all. One young woman wanted to thank Jonah for giving her her “clown name” when he’d seen the defining trait in her movement and emotional makeup one day during class. Another student who apparently hadn’t even taken his class wept as she spoke because now she never would. Professors stood and talked about Jonah’s sense of humor and the practical jokes he was always playing on them, which surprised me as he’d been so serious with me. When the host paused to ask if anyone else needed to say something I had an urge to speak, but I wasn’t a relative, I wasn’t part of any of these extended families and didn’t know what to say except you don’t know me but I loved him too. And of course that opening passed as quickly as it appeared; the host was now gesturing toward Michael, coaxing him onto the stage.
It took him a moment before he got to his feet, then he walked up the steps to the microphone. His first words were, “I don’t want to be standing here.” His last were, “Goodbye, Love.” In between was everything else I can’t remember. I only remember thinking that grief must give us these brief moments of strength he demonstrated, a window of time so we can say what we must say with some dignity and clarity before falling apart.
The lights went down as through the speakers Diana Krall sang Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You,” and a video on a screen showed a sequence of slides—Jonah onstage with a group of actresses, Jonah dreamy-eyed in the late seventies with a full head of curly hair, Jonah and Michael on their wedding day. Afterward we were asked to put on our clown noses. The room was suddenly filled with bright red balls stuck in the middle of hundreds of faces. It was almost funny. Then the clowns sang a song, and the memorial was over. The lights came up. People rose to their feet as if out of a dream. Some moved toward the exits, some toward the family by the stage. I knew if I left I’d take the emptiness I felt with me, so using the chance to give my condolences to Michael I made my way down to the floor. Everyone there seemed filled with love and an odd joy. Unsure as I was whether it was proper for me to approach Michael or what I would say to him, my legs still propelled me his way. I felt smaller than everyone around me. He was very tall. I hesitated, then touched his arm. “Michael?” I said. He turned and smiled down at me as if he knew me but couldn’t place me. “I’m Steve.”
“Steve,” he said with such warmth I can still hear his voice. He took me in his arms like I was a lost creature come home. He held me like he needed me. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more grateful. Then he turned; Jonah’s sister was watching, and he tried to introduce me. “This is Steve,” he said, searching for words. “One of Jonah’s…” I looked at her. I didn’t know what to say or how to say it. How could I describe it? “He was my shiatsu guy,” I managed. She nodded, then Michael joined her as they made their way through other well wishers and friends to carry on the responsibilities of burying a loved one.
◊♦◊
I headed from the theater down Eighth Avenue toward 42nd Street where I was meeting friends for a show at B.B. King’s club. I didn’t want to go but I already had a ticket. I cradled the red clown nose in my hand inside my jacket pocket. At 45th Street I paused and looked down the block toward the building where Jonah had lived, then continued on.
At the club I met my friends wearing the clown nose. They didn’t know how to respond to it and neither did I. Everyone in the place was intent on having a good time, and why shouldn’t they? But I felt separated. I kept putting on the clown nose and taking it off. The waitress did her best to ignore it. Is he trying to be funny?
The next morning I laid out my Pilates mat and began my workout. I remembered Jonah telling me we were like dance partners, and I saw an image of a pair of professional ice skaters where the male is clearly gay and the female is straight. There is nothing sexual between them, but there is something physical. The bond is undeniable. They go on with their other lives before and after the dance. They meet on the ice.
I knew that what happened between myself and this man would be non-repeating. The circumstances couldn’t be replicated. I was a different person now. Like a first best friend, a first kiss, a first pet, I would never feel this kind of intimacy again. I found my fingers pressing the same pressure points on my feet and along my shins that Jonah would press. It was then I began to cry. The truth was, more than anything, I would miss the way he touched me.
“Touch” was originally published in The Pinch, Spring 2012, and reprinted in The Pushcart Prize XXXVIII
Touch-Part 1
Touch-Part 2
—Photo ARNue/Flickr