Talking to him was like standing in the sun. I respected him from afar, frightened somewhat by his orbit, so I was surprised when I heard he offed himself. I selfishly wanted to know how. Pills or a gun or leaping in front of a bus.

I overheard the news at a leather bar, sulking over a gin and tonic after striking out with someone in Weimar gear. It was the hushed tones of Amber, everyone’s favored hag—though I’m told you can’t say that anymore—whispering to her flock. I eavesdropped and pushed the lime wedge to the bottom of my glass with a straw.

Afterwards I wandered around his usual spots, which were my usual spots, too, I suppose, in search of more details. It seemed gouache to ask outright how someone killed themselves, gouache-r so to be seen inquiring publicly. A deathly gossip, a morbid fairy, etc. Come to think of it, he and I never even spoke… At last I found an old queen who knew him, wrinkly with thinning hair and arthritic fingers, holding court in a dingy tiki bar. He motioned dramatically towards the barstool beside him.

“The thing about Joey is he always had a touch of tragedy. Like a hero from a folk song on the radio. Remember those? Anyways, Joey’s father worked at a market selling rare coffee and teas. He met Joey’s mother there, and she got pregnant and they moved in together. Joey was an unusual baby, didn’t cry much. And Joey’s mother really took to mothering, no postpartum or anything. Since it all seemed to be peachy, his father went back to work within a few weeks. Well, old habits and all, he started up with some girl—huge tits! I mean, Homeric knockers!

“The specifics are only rumor, but one day, after he told her to fuck off—I mean, he had a newborn at home—she marched in, took an antique comb off a vendor’s table and gauged her eyes out in the middle of the market. Like Joey, the mistress didn’t even scream. Plenty of others did though. God, it was awful. Blood everywhere. And Joey’s dad just stood there, slack-jawed.”

His tale was interrupted by a coughing fit. The old queen wouldn’t cover his mouth and phlegm scattered across the bar. I wiped the back of my hand on my pants and ordered another G&T.

“Anyhow, it was a big scandal. Apparently the mistress had been pregnant. Nobody knows what happened to the baby. Or to the mistress, for that matter. She left town pretty quick. Joey’s father was fired from the market and the family fell on hard times. His mother never forgave, for any of it. Became a drinker and loved to remind Joey that he had a whore stepmother and piece of shit half-brother out there somewhere. Go find them, she’d say, then the blind can lead the blind! Nasty stuff.

“That stuck with Joey, I think. But he was beautiful, and I suppose everything has a cost.”

He began to clear his throat again and I braced for more phlegm, but the spit remained localized. Once he recovered his composure, he winked, “You can trust me, I was the family tailor!” Whatever that means.

Then his cough returned. God, it was awful. Everyone was looking. He doubled over. I asked the bartender for water. The old man was starting to go rigid. His pale complexion looked positively gray-scale. The bar top becomes a river, my drink sinks below. I am unmoored, the image of the old man standing like an ancient stone monument among the dark waves. I am serious! I drift further and further from him, thrashing in the water, choking on its floral and metallic taste, hints of Tanqueray.

The bartender sails by on a barge, a pink lei dangling from his chest. Am I hallucinating? My choking feels terribly real.