To the roommate who saved my life

When I was 21 years old, I moved to San Francisco by myself. At that time, I didn’t realize just how lonesome the real world could be.

This is the story of how my roommate saved my life, and how I wasn’t there to save his.

He was a short skinny white sailor who had recently moved to San Francisco from Maine to attend the local community college. He often wore tight t-shirts and cut-off shorts and too much makeup that made him look quite feminine. He was flamboyant when he wanted to be and often spoke whatever was on his mind, no matter how inappropriate his comments made others feel.

He fit my stereotypical image of a gay man, so I assumed he was gay when I first saw him. During the first couple of days he moved into the house, we shared details about our lives and we quickly developed a friendship. We were the complete opposites, but we got along well. I wanted to be completely honest with him, so in my first bold move since moving away I decided to come out to him. At first, he looked at me doubtfully, and then after seeing my rather embarrassed face, very excitedly, told me he would be happy to take me to gay clubs, bars, and show me around the city. I smiled at the thought of him being my first friend in San Francisco.

On our first night out, I told him how anxious I felt about going to my first gay club, so, in an attempt to make me feel better, he gave me a bottle of vodka to calm my nerves and instructed me to chug the alcohol down as fast as I could. I did as he told me, but I felt more nervous and drunk by the time we arrived at the club.

Once inside, the electrifying scene of men kissing, touching, and dancing with each other captivated me. Suddenly, I became part of the gay world which seemed like such a raw and unfamiliar place to be in. Feeling a bit uneasy though, I asked my roommate if we could go back home, but he grabbed me by my shoulders, turned me towards the dancefloor, and told me he wouldn’t allow a couple of guys kissing to scare me into hiding my true self. My world had just been changed and my roommate was to thank.

After we got tired of dancing, my roommate and I sat down and, in a casual tone, he told me how the gay world was a lonely and shallow place full of people who only wanted sex. He warned me about engaging with men in these clubs because they were only looking to prey on young cute guys like me. I was confused by his comment, not just because he genuinely complimented me without wanting anything in return, but when I looked around, I only saw a roomful of friendly men dancing and enjoying themselves. He went on and expressed how long-distance relationships all end disastrously because most gay men cheat. I assured him that my partner and I were making things work despite living far away from each other. Finally, he told me that a lot of men in this community will eventually fuck around with each other, so a true platonic friendship was rare. I didn’t know what to say – I had no intention of messing around with him.

That night, an older man tried to take me back to his place when he saw I was a drunken mess. Miraculously, my roommate found me outside the club before my panic attack worsened, hailed a taxi, and we left home together. After that incident, my roommate promised he would be there to protect me from being taken away by strangers whenever we went out. I promised the same.

I can go on-and-on and tell you about the many times my roommate kept his word and took care of me whenever we went out clubbing or how he called me a prude because I was always so afraid to show my sexuality. Or that one night he said I dressed too “straight” and decided to dress me in a tight flannel shirt where I showed more skin than I had ever exposed before. Or how we spent hours in his room talking about music, our families, our relationships, and the little friends we had. But that’s not the story I want to tell.

My roommate passed away in April of 2012. He was only 22.

I had only known him for 2 months before he took the drive back home, but we had spent a vast amount of time together that we viewed each other as friends. However, I soon became busy with college life and the times we caught up with each other became less frequent. I last messaged him a few weeks before I found out about his death to tell him that my partner had been cheating on me from the very beginning of our relationship. I let him know that he was correct: gay guys often cheat.

I learned of his death later that month. It was ruled an accidental fall.

Truth of the matter, my roommate had been going through some difficult times. He didn’t have many friends he could rely on or talk with about his problems, so he often took trips by himself to clear his mind.

On the anniversary of his passing, I repeatedly re-read the only article related to his death and I spent many hours wondering what would have happened if I had called him during the night he fell off the tower. Visions of us laughing and consoling each other on the phone still haunt me.

You see, my roommate spent a lot of time trying to teach me about the gay world, but I don’t think he realized the three lessons he taught me about life. The first being how easily individuals with experience can take advantage of those who are too naïve and trusting. Secondly, most relationships simply fade away with no real explanation or they can end abruptly especially if someone cheats. More importantly, he taught me that true friends are rare.

I needed my roommate during that time in my life.

The world for a newly “out” individual can be dangerously lonely.

On the night he moved out, we were avoiding that awkward goodbye hug. Finally, after he seemed to be done pacing back-and-forth checking his room for any missing belongings, he approached me and gave me a hug. He thanked me for being one of the good guys. He said I shouldn’t be so worried about being myself around other people, my gay self, and to take care.

I told him to take care of himself too.

If I knew that was going to be the last time we were going to see each other, I would have hugged him longer and closer. I would have thanked him for being there to teach me about the world and for constantly protecting me from stranger men even during the times I resisted. I would have told him how much I cared for him and how much I loved him for being himself around me. I would have told him how grateful I was for him accepting me. I would have told him he could always reach out to me whenever he wanted to talk or to cry. I would have told him that he was not alone in feeling so isolated in this world.

But I didn’t say any of that.

As he drove off, I waved goodbye. I then walked into his empty room, closed the door, and cried.