James sits up and grabs my guitar. He can’t play, but silhouetted like this, he looks like a god when he holds it; a young rock star ready to take over the world.

James lucks into a minor G and says, I heard Nomi wore those huge lovely collars to hide the sores. I heard he had it.

It?

AIDS.

But they don’t know? I ask.

James glares at me and puts the guitar down gently. Then, in a voice that’s anything but gentle, he says, Normal, everyday people are being fired from their jobs, Michael. Do you know how many funeral homes in the city will bury someone who died from AIDS? Guess. No, wait. I’ll tell you. Precisely one. I heard Steven’s parents wouldn’t even visit the hospital to say goodbye because they were afraid of catching something. And of course they didn’t tell me, so one of the nicest people I’ve ever met, died alone.

He takes a deep breath and fights back tears. Then he says, If you were Klaus Nomi, would you tell anyone?

James hadn’t told me Steven had died.

I feel like the shittiest friend in the world.

People stop at the newsstand and stare, expressions ranging from disgust, to fascination, to awe.

The Newsweek cover is the first national publication to show two men together, without hiding the fact that they’re a couple, according to the news. It’s definitely the first I’ve ever seen, and I have to shake my head to make sure I’m not imagining it.

But I’m not.

The cover shows two men leaning into each other under letters almost as big as the type in the magazine’s name, spelling out GAY AMERICA.

It shows two men looking into the camera and daring the person looking at the magazine to dismiss them.

And yeah, under that is SEX, POLITICS AND THE IMPACT OF AIDS so they’re going there, but when I look at the other people milling around to catch a glimpse, there’s a kid I’ve seen at school, who is a couple years younger than me, and he’s smiling like he’s seeing the most beautiful thing in the world.

Maybe he is.

Later that week, James comes over when my dad is working late and my mom is playing bridge with the women at church. He doesn’t want to talk. He won’t eat the food Mom left on the counter for me, not even the lasagna.

He stays silent when I suggest hanging out to watch the guys play ball over on West 4th.

He stays silent when I tell him I’m thinking of checking out open mic night.

He stays silent when I tell him about the orthodox Jews I saw coming out of the Adonis movie theater on 8th Avenue, long black coats, long dark sideburns curling into spirals.

Come dancing with me, I suggest and finally get his attention.

I thought you liked to go alone, he says, but his eyes are hopeful.

He’s right. I love going downtown and downstairs, and getting lost in the music and the smoke and the smell of sweat and cologne and dry ice. I love—for the length of a song at least—having no name, no history, no fears, no dreams. No reason to want to forget them all.