Scary Halloween Stories

This is a memory of Marvin Tate, a man who worked with me at my restaurant

A BLACK WIG
Want to hear something silly? Years ago on Halloween night at the Black Sheep Marvin shows up in a lacy black dress and an ugly black fright wig. He used black Gothic make up. Sleazy Morticia, and just adorable! He was small, skinny, made quick, sharp movements, and the black on black emphasized his scary appearance. He was a screech. You had to love him.

So in that full drag, he began to wait on his tables. He had the customers pissing. We were all encouraging one another that night, antics were the order of the day. There were signs of a brief but intense pasta fight in the kitchen. He loved to entertain his customers. He wanted so much to be loved. He'd go way out of his way to make everyone in his world happy. Sometimes, in my role as owner-chef, I would misunderstand him. I was an asshole by not being more encouraging, but my growth as a human came slowly. I wish I had been supportive. Everybody loved him. He had a heart of gold. He was one in a million.

Later that night the kids all went out to a party, and he came over to my house to change into street garb; I lived next door - so he left the costume here and vanished into the night. Years later it ended up at Fire Island, where one Halloween it got worn to the Island Club in his honor. It was as though I brought him with me that night. The wig has been lying around the house here, moved from one place to another.

The restaurant closed, Marvin moved to North Carolina, and was diagnosed with advanced AIDS. He lived with his sister, the only member of his large family who would not reject him. The social security people made him wait two years for his money; he didn't have any to buy those costly medicines. His case is but one of so many who sliped between the cracks of beaurocracy and died that year. He left his body last August.

The US and North Carolina governments had a hand in his death by negligence. They killed him and never even knew who he was.

Now, I'm on a binge of clearing out lawn bags of debris, things I never could let go of --both physical and emotional--Hacking away at relationships that clutter my life. I reached for the wig with an eye toward getting rid of it, and my heart melted. I simply could not bear to pitch it. Instead, I sat down to write this to you.

Okay so here's the silly part: that throwing it away would be like losing another part of him. I know that's ridiculous; he probably never gave that thing a second thought. Left it behind and moved on. It's still sitting there, and I'm finding a few very good reasons why a fag in New York City and Fire Island would need a horrible black wig. There are so many images of Marvin Tate I might retain, and yet that one of him in that outfit lingers, and even as I write this, brings tears to my eyes.

He was family. I loved him.

Michael