(Kansas City, 7-1-05)

Bruce invited me to stay at his loft that night, in a building that had once been a popcorn factory.  The grinds and cranks still hung from the ceiling.

I accepted without pause, and when I did, he confessed that his bed was actually just two large couches pushed together in his living room, forming a sort of oversized cradle, an arrangement he said would be “very communal.”  I didn’t care; it was free and I couldn’t afford to keep staying in motels like I had the night before.  I was officially out of the safety zone of friends and family, and for the rest of the tour would have to rely on the kindness of strangers and my own limited resources for places to stay.

Over beers, spicy potatoes, and tomato sauce with goat cheese, I brought up the name of his business.  “So, who’s Smith?”

“My lover, but…”

“But what?” I asked with a smirk, expecting something juicy.  “You broke up?”

“He died eight years ago.”

“Oh my God.”

“We were together nine years before that, and then he died.”  He nodded his head with an invisible acknowledgement, as if confirming a question I’d asked, but I hadn’t.   “Of AIDS.”

I suddenly felt very young, like nothing in my life mattered, ever mattered, or ever could matter.

“We complemented each other really well. He worked in the books and I was more on the creative side. But after he was gone, I really had to re-figure things out for myself.”

“I can’t imagine how you lived with that happening to the person you love,” I said.

“It was harder living without him,” he replied plainly.

Silence.

“Do you date now?”

“Not really. Gay men are vicious, the internet is a joke, and gay bars are just meat-markets. Anyway, I’m not really in that mode.  Like, when he and I were together, I never sang.  I put all of myself into our relationship, and after he died…”  Bruce took a deep breath.  ”After he died I really had to reinvent myself without him.  It’s taken since then to get my voice back.  Nine years and I’m just barely getting gigs, and still the best I can do is with the Civic Opera.”

“But you’re singing Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder!” I commanded. “That’s a big fucking deal!”

“Well, my point is, I couldn’t have done that with him, or at least I didn’t.  I thought that by staying true to myself, I’d actually end up sabotaging the relationship, which was so important to me at the time, to my life.  I didn’t realize that artists need to keep their art a priority if they want to get what they need out of life.”   He looked like he wanted to shake me. “You need to always keep your life as exciting as it is now, Adam.   You have so much trust in yourself at that piano…”

“I might just be a good actor,” I suggested.  ”I’m not sure I have so much trust in myself.”

“Then so be it,” he urged. “Music is acting, and at some point during these fifty states, I guarantee you’ll have to act a little.   But you know it and I know it — what you did tonight wasn’t an act.”  He laughed, half to himself.  “Listen, you’ll always have something new to fear, and your goals?  Just watch, they’ll always hop one step ahead of you the moment you get too close.  Fifty-states?”  He shook his head and smiled.  ”Just watch.”