The Closet.

As a sixty-six-year-old guy with a prostate issue Jean-Marc couldn’t understand why his seventy-five-year-old friend Jules decided it was time to come out of the closet. The only thought he had upon hearing the news was ‘why?’ And putting down his fork, looking around the restaurant with a bemused expression Jean-Marc actually asked: “Why?”

“Why am I Bisexual?”
“No. You’re seventy-five-friggin-years-old. Why come out now?”
“Well I just wanna be honest and open with my dearest friends and family.”
“Now? Jules you’re an old man. Nobody’s interested. You should stay in the closet, put up a poster of Marilyn Manson or David Bowie.”
“Look, you don’t need to worry. You’re not my type.”
Jean-Marc hadn’t had a relationship in years. Hell, he’d hardly had an erection in years. But upon hearing that, he lifted his arms up in the air and exclaimed: “So this is what it’s come down to. I’m not even attractive to a seventy-five-year-old bisexual man.”

The two had known each other for over twenty years. Both painters of note, both represented by Ron Bryce, they’d met during one of Jean-Marc’s legendary parties at his place in the Gatineaus. They’d even exhibited together though their styles were terribly different or perhaps because of it. Jean-Marc was more of an impressionist. Jules painted abstracts, sometimes collages using a wild assemblage of products from candy-wrappers to condoms. Jean-Marc had been initially aghast, increasingly enthralled and eventually somewhat envious of Jules’ sense of freedom.

They spent the rest of that dinner discussing or arguing the dubious merits of Jules’ news. Basically Jean-Marc wanted him to keep the revelation of his sexual preferences to himself. Jules had a wife, two grown boys and a grand-daughter after all and Jean-Marc for the life of him could not understand the ‘why’. “And what’s so great about coming out of a bisexual closet anyway?,” he asked. “It’s not a real closet, kind of a large walk-in affair, so to speak.” Jean-Marc thought he was being quite clever but was also quite serious. He really thought Jules was making a big mistake.

They were at ‘The Green Door,’ a well-known buffet-style vegetarian eatery of mostly non vegetarians who anyway felt vegetarian while there. It’s across from St. Paul’s university on Main Street, been there for over forty years near the Rideau canal, near the Glebe, near Centre Town. It’s the type of restaurant where a reasonable discussion about ones sexual orientation might occur even if not entirely appreciated.

“Maybe you‘re just afraid to be associated with someone like me.” That stopped Jean-Marc. He was quiet for a long moment. The arrow hit its target pretty much right on. He stopped masticating food to chew on that a while. “Maybe I don’t,” he finally said. “I gotta think about it.” Jules smiled. “You do that.” In the end, excuse the expression, as they were about to leave, Jean-Marc couldn’t quite help himself: “So I guess a fast blow-job’s outta the question?” He figured that was hillarious but Jules shot him a glance that was both reproachful and slightly hurt. And later on that night he got a call from Ron saying Jules had apparently attempted suicide.

In 1989 Alain Brusseau was strolling through Majors Hill Park in Ottawa when he was attacked by a gang. Even though he wasn’t gay they thought he was. Maybe he was too small to be straight. Maybe he was too smartly dressed. Anyway, they beat him, dragged him to the Alexander Bridge and threw him off.

Jean-Marc walked hesitantly into the Civic shaking in his boots. How could he face his old buddy? He’d practically put Jules there by giving him such a ridiculously hard time. He realized he’d been spectacularly insensitive. The hospital hallway was full to overflowing with all manner of people. There were people on crutches, in wheel-chairs, using canes or walkers. There were people leading people or just being there in case. At the ‘Tim Hortons’ booth there were people behind people patiently waiting their turn. Jean-Marc thought: ‘how odd to have a donut shop in a hospital,’ but there it was, the busiest corner in the building. A gurney was being wheeled along and a man lying prone on top, tubes in his nose, turned his head slightly to look whistfully over while passing by.

Jean-Marc made his way down past the other shops, the cafeteria, the flower stand to the elevators. When the doors opened a couple of attendants wheeled a gurney out on which lay an old lady, expressionless, accepting of her fate. On the seventh floor Jean-Marc asked directions at the nurses’ station, took a breath before pushing open the door. Jules’ wife Genevieve seemed happy and even relieved to see him. They hugged and she somewhat off-handedly announced “He’s all yours for a bit,” as she grabbed her bag and walked out.

Jean-Marc sat in the chair beside the bed that Genevieve vacated. He could barely look up until Jules asked: “How you doin?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you?”
“Oh hell,” Jules responded. “They just kept me overnight for observation. Genevieve couldn’t wait for someone else to get here. She’s been sitting there all night, refused to leave me.” They’d been married since their thirties. Jules liked to say it was her charming accent that hooked him but that later on it was just irritating. He’d say it anywhere and Genevieve’d roll her eyes. In reality they always seemed inseparable.

“I’m so sorry,” Jean-Marc spoke into his hands.
“You’re sorry? What’re you sorry for?”
At that point Jean-Marc broke down, actually began to cry. Totally shocked Jules belted out: “What the hell’s the matter with you?!”
“It’s my fault.”
“What’s your fault?!”
“The suicide attempt.”
“What the fuck are you talking about!?”
Jean-Marc looked up at his friend for the first time still sobbing: “It’s my fault you tried to kill yourself.”
Wide-eyed Jules half sat up, let out a loud guffaw. “I didn’t try to kill myself you idiot! I double-dosed my heart medication by accident, Genevieve freaked out and called 911.”
“You didn’t try to kill yourself?”

Jules began to laugh. He stopped to look at Jean-Marc for a moment then laughed again. Jean-Marc was confused but maybe relieved. “I thought because I gave you a hard time about your being, you know, bisexual.”
“Who’s bisexual?” Now Jules was simply looking at Jean-Marc incredulously.
“You.”
“I’m not bisexual.”
“But you told me over dinner yesterday!”
Jules’ voice became lower, softer as he said: “Jean I’m not bisexual, never told you I was. I’m a seventy-five-year-old straight guy with a wife, two sons, a granddaughter, a bad heart condition and now suddenly quite concerned about my friend Jean-Marc.”

Jean-Marc stared at Jules. Jules stared at Jean-Marc. Genevieve stared at both of them after walking back in. “What’s going on?,” she asked.
Jules smiled over at his wife. “Jean seems to think I’m bisexual and therefore tried to kill myself.”
Genevieve put her hand on his shoulder from the far side of the bed. “Are you bisexual my dear? How lovely. No wonder your heart’s been so badly abused.”
“Would you like me to swing both ways dear?”
“Well it might’ve taken some pressure off me through the years but at this point who would care?” They both chuckled as Jean-Marc got up.
“I’m confused,” he said. “I don’t know what to think.”

In the privacy of the empty oversized elevator Jean-Marc put his hands on his head. He rolled them around and made slightly audible plaintive noises before reaching the main level. He walked down the hall to the Tim Hortons, ordered a medium coffee double double, a glazed sour-cream donut and sat on an empty bench in the lobby. He took out his phone and called Ron. “You told me he tried to commit suicide.”
“Yeah apparently he overdosed his heart meds by accident, Gen panicked and called the emergency line.” Jean-Marc ate the donut, drank the coffee and left the building. But three days lster he was back.

On September 30, 2012, in New Westminister, British Columbia, twenty-six-year-old January Marie Lapuz was found in her home suffering from stab wounds. She died the next morning at Royal Columbian Hospital. Twenty-two-year-old Charles Jameson Neel pleaded guilty to manslaughter in June for her stabbing death and was sentenced to eight years in prison. Lapuz was the first transgender person on the executive of Sher Vancouver, an organization supporting gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender South Asians.

Jean-Marc might’ve had many suspicions, maybe made some different conclusions if not for the other symptoms. It’s not just that he’d bung the milk into the cupboard, put shoes on before pants or forget laundry in the machine for days. There were times he was disoriented. There were times he got lost in familiar places. And there were times he was emotional, easy-going, empathetic. That was bad. That was the clincher. It just wasn’t him. He saw no harm in checking with Doctor Lamelin who immediately scheduled a series of tests.

Normally the tests would be done at the Hull or Gatineau hospitals on the Quebec side only there was a specialist in early onset Alzheimers at the Civic. Doctor Lamelin never used the word but it’s obviously what she was considering. The hospital hallway was full to overflowing with all manner of people. There were people on crutches, in wheel-chairs, using canes or walkers. There were people leading people or just being there in case. At the ‘Tim Hortons’ booth there were people behind people patiently waiting their turn. And Jean-Marc took his place in line. He was concerned he might be late for the appointment, moreso as the lineup snaked along so slowly. But he’d been so looking forward to Tims, had arrived early just for that.

After quickly inhaling his coffee and donut however he positively scurried up to where he was supposed to be, a large open room on the fourth floor. He checked in with a pleasant plus-size lady sitting at a counter behind plexiglass, passed his medical card through the slot and received it back along with a white hospital card. Then he took a seat and waited, and waited, and waited. He got a call from Jules, another from Ron’s partner Durga. And still he waited.

Finally a girl called out ‘Mr. Simard’ and he was ushered into the office of a Doctor Fujiwara. Doctor Fujiwara was a short man who took a long time interviewing Jean-Marc, taking copious notes regarding medical history, giving him what he called a mental fitness examination, periodically saying: “ah” or “oh” or the tremendously enigmatic “hmmm.” He was sent for blood tests and then an MRI. Following the MRI Jean-Marc asked the technician how it all looked. But in a rather ominous-sounding germanic accent the lady would only say: “Your doctor vill contact you.” He’d spent most of the day there, was glad to sit down over a coffee and donut before leaving the building. But three days later he was back.

By that time he was alarmed. Doctor Fujiwara wanted further testing done and Jean-Marc would need to be checked in for a day or two. Frankly, by that time he was freaked out. Only in the middle of all the worry and while making arrangments the night before one very nice thing happened: he received a call from his daughter. Jean-Marc had not heard from Liette in over a year, maybe two, when she’d cut off all communication. Ron had taken a chance to let her know what her old dad was going through.

The hospital hallway was full to overflowing with all manner of people. There were people on crutches, in wheel-chairs, using canes or walkers. There were people leading people or just being there in case. At the ‘Tim Hortons’ booth there were people behind people patiently waiting their turn. But Jean-Marc couldn’t possibly think about donuts.

On February 23, 2018, the Toronto police announced that Mr. Bruce McArthur had been charged with five counts of first-degree murder related to men who had gone missing from the city's gay village. The remains of at least three victims had been found in large planters at homes where Mr. McArthur worked as a landscaper.

As Jean-Marc languished in his hospital bed listening to the laboured breathing of his room-mate the door opened. Jules and Genevieve entered with a bouquet of flowers. Jules sat in the chair, his wife behind with a hand on his shoulder. They chatted for a while although Jean-Marc was hardly listening. Genevieve said something about it being good to know. Jules said something about how it’d all be alright. But Jean-Marc kept looking at his watch.

Eventually Jules asked: “Jean why must you keep looking at your watch?”
“Liette’s coming to see me.”
“Oh.”
“But that’s so wonderful,” Genevieve said as she finished with the flowers. She’d found a large plastic glass to use as a vase.
“Actually she’ll be here any minute.”
Genevieve grabbed Jules’ arm to lead him out. But as they neared the door, Jules turned half-back to say: “So I guess a fast blow-job‘s outta the question.”