Lake Oswego Oregon Here we Come

As we were leaving for Oregon before Christmas, we celebrated in Randy's apartment with live decorated tree including exchanging gifts. Problem is, what do you buy your boyfriend who literally has everything and won't be needing in the future - a nice set of kitchen knives. Hey, he liked to cook. I got a framed Judy Garland record and a beautiful book on Marilyn. (Don't you dare ask who?)

The big day finally arrived and we headed to LAX and check-in. I dunno, perhaps it that we were such a cute couple, it was near the holidays or her pantyhose weren't riding up her ass, but the desk attendant gave us an upgrade to First Class. Love Reno Air (do they even still exist?). Didn't matter that it was a puddle jump from LA to Portland - once you get that little warm towel - coach is NEVER the same.

We land and get to the house and I meet the family. Now, Randy and she were THISCLOSE, Spoke nearly, if not every day. She was the first person he called in regards to meeting me in fact. And not only she, but her husband and son (Uncle Randy) were everything described and more. Peas in a pod weren't closer than the two of them. It was nice to be among such a loving family.

The only complaint is that made me (with a suppressed immune system now mind you) go outside in the COLD RAIN or in COLD GARAGE to smoke my cigs. Cruel I tell. Very Cruel. Oh how we suffer for love (btw, this is called sarcasm).

First night we went out to the movies. Pret'a Porte (so shoot me on the misspelling) which surprisingly was packed to the roof and we got two seats in the very back row which I climbed and jumped over to use the ladies room. The bitch was climbing back up. But before we got inside, he and I were discussing the upcoming Mrs. Parker and the Round Table, with me explaining who she and what it was when an elderly lady spoke up from a seat not too far from us. It turned out that she had spent her youth in England and knew many of the people we spoke of and for thirty minutes she lauded us with tales of garden parties at Buckingham Palace and what it was like before the war, Tallulah Bankhead among many. I'd have much rather stayed out there and listened to her than have suffered through twoplus hours of Robert Altman.

Day with family and then we went out to have a drink and see about scoring me some weed. No tut-tut-ing here please, it's medicinal. (Randy didn't partake as it didn't agree with his meds) so for him to do this for me was sweet. Of course, the go-go boys (who is who you went to for weed in Portland) didn't hurt the process of looking and during that searching, at some point during the evening, Randy suddenly turned to me and said,

"You know, I'll never settle down with just one person."

To quote Mrs. Braflovski from South Park: "Wha-wha-wha-WHAT?"

Let me just interject here that the world comes to a screeching halt not only for words you desire but also those you may not want to hear, and they too will embed themselves into your brain and soul. Not exactly the thing I was expecting to come out of his mouth. Let's just say that it was a quiet trip back to the house, and a sleepless night for both of us which wasn't good because I'd planned an overnight sidetrip to the small town of Roslyn, Washington where they filmed the television show Northern Exposure for us and it was a several hour drive up and over in the state.

Now, I honestly cannot remember if we discussed the issue on the trip up, but a truce had been called. I can still see the stunningly vivid and beautiful mountain scenery where the sky and water would blend together erasing the horizon. Checked into the hotel and after dinner at the diner next door played in the days old snow (which sucks for making good snowballs and angels) before some really great, well let's just the rumors about make-up sex are true (come now, we're all grown-ups).

Roslyn is a SMALL town. I mean way smaller than Bartow. Population 800 except when they came to film the series twice a year for extended periods of time. Formerly a mining town, it's main industry was tourism. EIGHT coffee houses, oodles of Northern Exposure souvenir shops and even a tour book about the town including references to the series (well duh). Ironically and unfortunately, the series ended by the next May so lord knows what happened to all that crap they had for sale. SIDE NOTE: the 's added to the wall was PAPER just taped up there - I was so disappointed.

We literally were done with the place in about four hours so we climbed back in the car and returned to Lake O and Christmas the next day. After a big restaurant breakfast we flew back to Los Angeles (again First Class but because Randy paid the upgrade, sweetheart that he was, and we held hands all the way home), located the car in the vast off-off-off-off lot parking and returned back to his place where a very crispy and dried out tree greeted us as we'd left it in the window alcove where it got so much sun, one extra day and it probably would've gone up in flames.

As it seemed our relationship was about to over the next six weeks.

New Beginnings

I went home and waited by the phone. Well, not literally, but almost. Giddy as a schoolgirl. It certainly made exploring the Wilshire "Miracle Mile" a little more fun. But one then two days went by and no call. Should I call him? Would that be too obvious? What if he didn't like me as much as I did him. Could I've read the signals wrong?

Mr. Self-Confidence of 1994, huh?

But finally on the third day he phoned and we set something up for the next night which was Friday. He gave me directions to his place downtown and with much trepidation, excitement and, ah, crap, I was nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. But at least he was interested, thank God.

Got to the address and made my way to Figueroa and 3rd, past the guard in the little house (fancy-schmancy I said to myself), into the elevator and up to the 15th floor. Down a hallway that seemed to go on longer than the endless one at Disney's Haunted Mansion until I reached his door. (Seriously it was a trek from the elevators to his place - curse of the corner apartment). First date jitters overtook me as I knocked on the door, but when Randy opened it, it was as if we were standing again in the middle of Santa Monica Boulevard (or it was for me) and I felt safe.


NICE little one bedroom. Forest green living/dining room walls. White sofas with big pillows and one of the oldest portable television sets I'd seen in years opposite. But out the window was the most spectacular vision - downtown Los Angeles all lit up. So many individual office windows each shining like a star in the night sky. Spectacular. I sparked up a cig and after apologizing for the odor wafting in the apartment I leaned out the window and made the mistake of looking straight down. Vertigo anyone? Randy told me that it was okay, he like the smell of the smoke. (How sweet of you to say that you adorable, lying, little man I thought to myself.)

After a bit more small talk and such, we, well (you seriously don't expect me to tell you what happened next do you? Let's put it this way, I didn't make it back to my place for a week except for grabbing changes of clothes.) And in those five or six days, we managed to cram a six-month courtship because I immediately found out the severity of Randy's AIDS illness the next morning. (Maybe because he'd thought I'd hit the door running if knew beforehand.)

Randy was only thirty-three and had been postive then full blown for ten years when we met. He had about six T-cells and three to six months to live (according to his doctors). In fact, he'd gotten his viaticle settlement (cashing out personal life insurance early, the amount determined by length of life left - people invest in you dying before they lose money) the day we'd met. And the thing he'd made me feel in his arm? A pic line (tube running up a vein into his heart) to pump medication that he carried around in a little fanny pac he wore. Medication that he needed to live, survive, exist.

And none of that mattered, well it mattered, but it didn't. So I'd have to make some adjustments, learn to deal with certain issues and facts. Compromise. Oye. That I hadn't done in a long time. After all, my last serious relationship had ended almost seven years before with just lots of sleeping around till now (kinda kidding otherwise I wouldn't be a member of the club).

Was it easy, hell no. But for Randy, I'd do anything. And all along, it never crossed my mind about him checking out any time soon. We'd not beat this thing, but certainly make things last longer than six months, most definitely.

Now before I start getting any lectures here, Randy moved just as fast as I did, because he'd soon made plans for us to head up to Portland Oregon to visit his sister and her family. We'd gone down to Laguna Nigel to make sure I passed muster from one of his oldest friends (she took that picture of us) and one night he comes bouncing onto the couch trying to size my finger for a ring. However, being the old-fashioned girl (admittedly a trampy one) but still old-fashioned, no commitment, no ring. So we were at an impass on that for the moment which is okay cause hey, I'm meeting family. That certainly says something doesn't it?

And we kept our respective apartments though I was spending many night over at his place. Certainly much easier than having him deal with my two female roommates. He wasn't working, living off his early retirement (and being in trust account setting up, he was a smart cookie and had planned for this). However I needed to earn a living . Found an agent and was tempting in the advertising/media industry in graphic design - worked for some of the biggest ad houses and movie studios. Who knew they had agencies for that - certainly not in Florida or anywhere else I'd lived.

Our days were filled doing stupid touristy stuff since I'd never lived in LA before. (Only as far as Palm Springs for a year and then only managed to get to Hollywood once in that time.) We did the Queen Mary Tour, Huntington Museum and Gardens in Pasadena, Universal Studios, Farmers Market, Tar Pits, driving Mulholland Drive at fast speeds (he loved doing that and scaring the bejeebees out of me) when I wasn't working and I could say yea or ney to any job I wanted so life was wonderful and soon it was time for our Pacific Northwest Christmas.

Halloween 1994

How do describe the love of your life?

The one who makes you a better person, and you, him? The person you want to spend the rest of your lives together with? The guy who makes yours eyes light up when you mention his name and gives you that warm, tingling feeling all over, who can make your heart feel like it's going to burst out of your chest you love him just so God-damn much? The person who'd you give up your last breath for? Who teaches you what life is truly all about?

I'm gonna give it a try.

I first met Randy Dean Peterson on the balcony of the Holloway Motel overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood on Halloween night 1994. I had just relocated from Florida to Los Angeles and had lived at this place for previous three weeks while apartment hunting. Becoming friends with the managers, they invited me to watch the cumination of the Biggest Event in the gayest city except for Gay Pride which had started the Friday before and continued non-stop until that night (which was Monday - a friggin' work day, but the WeHos didn't care).

There was a large group of us crowded out on the balcony and then suddenly it was just him and I. And of course we 'cruised' each other. I thought to myself, he's kinda cute, but shorter and that's not on "my list" (you know which list I'm talking about - the Man of My Dreams). So when the suggestion came up that we go down and wander the Boulevard with his friend Doug as a trio, I agreed because I certainly needed to expand my social circle being the new "career girl" in town. We headed out the door and down to the street, slowly meandering our way down the crowded avenue filled with people both in and out of costumes (Doug was, Randy and I weren't) talking about just this that and the other. Our little trio ended up in front of the Pavilion's Supermarket parking lot when Randy suddenly asked me "So, are you seeing anyone?"

Oops. What the hell do I tell him? This had never come up before because since being diagnosed, I hadn't even considered the thought of ever dating someone, (plus if there was somone in FL, would I have moved?). So, kinda half-turning to him I said out of the side of my mouth "Uh, well, I was diagnosed HIV+ three years ago".

Randy turned me around and taking the soda (which I'd gotten up along the way) out of my right hand and gave it to Doug. He then proceeded to take that hand and shove it up the left sleeve of the leather jacket he was wearing until I touched something that felt like an IV and tube sticking out of his arm (more on this later). When I tried to pull back, he held forcebly my hand in place and looked up at me with the most incredible brown eyes and said

"You're not alone".

At that very moment, the world screeched to a halt and those three little words permanently drilled themselves into the very core of my soul for all eternity.

After that, nothing more NEEDED to be said, and pretty much the rest of the night was a blur. But I do remember doing the shoulder/arm knocking into the other, shy glances and smiling at each other a hell of lot more and cracking jokes at Doug's expense since was dressed as, well, none of us are to this day exactly sure what look Doug was attempting to pull off unless is was Ugly Enigma. But after Doug had "used the facilities" at the grocery store (and lemme tell ya, florescent lights make Ugly into FUGLY (and we know what that means), we started back to where they had parked since Randy was getting tired and I need to get back to my new apartment I'd found that weekend.

There we were, awkwardly standing at the intesection of Santa Monica and San Vicente Boulevards trying to say goodbye while the crowds streamed around us. When the exchanging of phone numbers came up, turns out neither of us had a working pen so I walked over to the female sheriff standing there on patrol and asked to borrow hers'. We scratched out names and numbers and then came time for I guess the "goodnight kiss".

(Now, I have to stop right here for a second and explain that I always knew that I'd know when I was in love because of the movie star kiss - the one in all the films where the guy is standing very close facing the girl and he lifts her chin with his finger and kisses her every so gently with closed mouths (per Breen Code) and romantic music would start playing and then you'd see one of her legs suddenly pop up bent at a ninety degree angle, BING! - movie star kiss.)

And since Randy would've had to stand on some apple crates (height increasers used in filming) for that to happen, the best way to describe in today's terms would be that we kissed and the camera starts circling us and we stay in focus while everyone else becomes a spinning blur. And there were no bells or music that I can remember, only silence (and it was a CROWDED street). For me, time had stopped and I didn't want this moment to end.And no, my leg didn't go BING! (but something else did).

Goodbyes were said, ways parted and I headed back towards the motel and my car just floating. Here I was in Los Angeles for only three weeks and I'd found a great townhouse share across from the County Museum on Wilshire Boulevard (actually the La Brea Tar Pits on Sixth Street, the museum was directly behind that), AND I might have just found THE one. (Screw the damn list).

Only problem is, I had just lost my heart to a dying man.