I am not faking this person's name. He died some time ago, in the early nineties. I will not mention here his last name and will also take care not to give him away, not because I have anything to write that would be embarrassing to his memory but simply to honour and protect his privacy.
I had heard of Bill three years before I knew him. He had rented an apartment in the basement of the Famous Canadian Artist. He had a sweet little dog named, well, something like "Cookie". I cannot remember whether or not Great Canadian Artist spoke well of him or not. With her it was always hard to tell since she tended to err on the sardonic even if expressing in the sweetest tone. Creepy, rather.
I actually met Bill when I began to attend Snooty Church. He was already a sweet little old man, in his sixties. I found him on first sight enormously kind and gentle. A man who cared deeply about others. I soon learned that he was gay and somewhat vulnerable to unscrupulous rent boys. He also liked to drink. Being relatively fresh from evangelical Christianity I did find myself judging him rather harshly, given his strong religious and spiritual profession and how this didn't appear to square well with some of his lifestyle habits. But I tried to let it go, seeing what an incredibly kind man he was, and very devout.
He was a perennial good sport. He played a role for a play in Snooty Church's annual festival. He was a little girl dressed in a pinafore and long flaxen braids, and was named "Little Nell." Imagine a sixty-five year old man dressed in late Victorian era drag as a sweet little girl. He pulled it off very well.
A friendship blossomed between us and we periodically met for a meal or a coffee or both. He seemed to have a crush on me and after a few beers he would wax on tiresomely about my seductive beautiful eyes (okay, gentle reader, you can pull your head out of the sickness bag now!)
He became a faithful advocate for abused and abandoned children and dedicated much of his time and resources to developing the SOS Children's Village. He kept trying to compel me to join him in his charitable endeavours but I never heard the call. He did find these kinds of replies coming from me perplexing since I really didn't deal with the traditional Anglican notions of duty and obligation. Still don't.
He fell ill. I didn't know what afflicted him. It might have been HIV-AIDS. He was very discreet and very circumspect and I will probably never know what killed him. He did have a difficult and traumatic childhood. An orphan in England, in the twenties he was shipped off to Canada to live and work on one of the Bernardo Farms, a notorious slave industry disguised as a charitable institution. Growing up without love, yes, he was wounded, but from his wounds flowed love, the most wonderful unconditional love, the memory of which inspires me still. He was a wounded healer. I was summoned to his hospital bed. He had lost all his hair and had a blank stare. He didn't seem to know me. I sat with him for a while, then took his hand and kissed his forehead as I said "Goodbye Bill." He died the next day.
I hope this little essay will help preserve the memory of this truly remarkable man.
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