A slightly odd post over at the Republic of Dogs about Keith Richards snorting his father had me remembering a bizarre story of my young adulthood. When I was new to the city, Chicago to be specific, I had a former roommate who hooked me up with a job at a theater that would at least guarantee that I had rent money. It was more like being paid to have a social life. I did any number of jobs... I painted signage for the top of the building. Signs you only saw if you were riding the El. I did concessions, I did coat check. I did a number of other odd jobs I have since forgotten. But, like I said, it was fun. There was no division between the cast, their supporting staff and the front of house staff. It was a wonderful time, full of a lot of fun and a lot of fun memories. I was indeed paid to have a social life.
One of those memories was of the prop master whom I shall call, Gertrude. Gertrude was a gay man who thought he was Gertrude Stein reincarnated. Gertrude was full of life, full of advice (most of which I never really had the need to use) and full of... eccentricities. Gertrude liked me almost from the get-go since I have a low voice. He said he judged people by whether or not he could wake up with a hangover and be able to stand their talking. I guess I passed the test.
Gertrude, diagnosed with HIV back in the late 80's, when such a diagnosis was usually a death sentence, decided I was the one he wanted to clean out his apartment. For some reason he chose me as the person to not freak out and yet deal with his little peccadilloes with sensitivity. I must admit, I'm a bit relieved that I have never been called upon to do that duty. I don't know if it was due to us going in different directions or if he found someone else with whom to share his secret side. Although scared, I was honored to be asked, and was relieved when I didn't have to go there.
As I mentioned, this person thought he was Gertrude Stein reincarnated. I don't remember all of the stories or all of the evidence, but one thing I will never forget was him telling us about how he got a jar of Gertrude Stein's grave dirt and...
ATE IT!!!
Yes, he ate it... something about him being a part of her, her being a part of him.
I don't remember. What I do remember though is that he was not one to celebrate his b-day. He
didn't like the fal de ral. Someone in the company though knew that I *knew* him and asked if I'd make a cake. I said I would. I make him a cake with Picasso's, Gertrude Stein on it. I did it in my teeny, tiny studio apartment with a splitting hangover, but it is still one of my finest creations.
Gertrude, I hope you're still with us, still out there. I just hope you're not eating anymore grave dirt.
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