Estrangement II

While driving down the I-5 south on the way to San Francisco from Mount Shasta, I was thinking of the last time I'd talked to Rudy - from old Hugo's bed, him strangled less than 36 hours earlier, and me already putting a healthy dent in his residual stock of Campari...it was payback time after that unpleasant night watching him hoard all the Chivas back in the West End.

Somebody strangled him in his Mexico City hotel room - and the speculation was rampant - he was gay, he was a Russian spy, he was part of an Opus Dei style underground conspiracy. But, really the only relevant question was why hadn't it been done sooner? The Mexicans are a proud people, and I could easily see anybody - maybe a waiter cutting him up with a gutting knife after he complained just once too many times about his tortillas being soggy or his plate not being rewarmed. And Julio returning a little later to finish him off on principle alone. Whether he was gay or a spy was irrelevant - He had the family gift of being able to instantly piss people off.

Hugo's apartment was in the Ontario university town where he chaired the history department, name withheld to protect innocent working people who actually show up for work.

Inside Hugo's living room, there was a dark teak Telefunken stereo console in the French provincial style with a high gloss finish, with an AM-FM-SW radio and turntable, and plenty of cupboard space, stacked full of at least twenty bottles of single malt, Campari and Gin and two full cartons of Marlboro light, which just happened to be my brand. I parked my ass in his bed with a bottle of the Campari, lit up a smoke, and turned on the TV. "The elephant man" was on. It was a story about a sideshow freak, who had all kinds of redeeming features. Sounded like a tribute to Hugo. After the elephant man's dignity was restored, I reached for the telephone. The nice thing about getting murdered is nobody cuts off the phone service. And, I had friends from Chile to the Soviet Union, and time to kill until the men in frocks showed up to conduct the funeral. So, I decided to call Rudy.

Since our Leuven drinking days, Rudy had become an icon of the San Francisco cultural world. He lived on Alabama Avenue, just south from Market Street, and did a lot of work at the Queer Cultural Centre. He was doing a lot of work on Aids and the construction of queer identity, at least that's what his website said. Then, it said he'd developed an allergy to paint. It wasn't just Rudy, it seemed like everybody had a similar story. You become an artist, then what happens? You end up with a paint allergy.

But, he hadn't been seen around for a while. Apparently, he'd started to hang in a real scuzzy area of town, but if I wanted the address, he could dig it up for me.

Oh, yea, I can wait...