Bonus Room Secrets

At the end of the upstairs hallway lies the door to the bonus room. Just looking down the hallway at it is unsettling; it’s the scene in The Shining with the two creepy twins. The walls bow out, reality flees, I hear ominous music.

It’s a huge room, it could be a really cool place to chill. Instead, it’s a graveyard of castoff junk by the family. Toys, books, busted appliances that I’m supposed to fix, boxes of old cards and letters. Cleaning it out is always on my mind.

Last week, I took another shot at it. I walked past the creepy twins and into the morass. I told myself grimly I’m not gonna leave until I clean out at least one box of cards and letters.

At first, it was easy; old Christmas cards, birthday cards, receipts and warranties “I might need someday.” Then I came to a keeper birthday card; but instead of putting it in the retain pile, I made the mistake of reading it.

It was from my best friend at UF, Kip. He was like a brother, the guy you’d call at 3:00 am when your car broke down. We had our own vocabulary and assortment of inside jokes. We had long discussions about life at our favorite pub. Once we wandered around the sleeping campus until the sky started brightening in the east.

But all through our years together, he carried a secret, something I never even considered. He dated the same girl for four years, we all hung around together, good times. But behind the brave facade lay his burden.

After graduation, we’d meet up for lunch now and then. One day, he brought another guy with him, introduced us, and we all sat down. As lunch progressed, it became obvious that the guy was more just Kip’s friend. I think it was his way of letting me know.

We continued to meet until one day I called and his mom said he was in the hospital. I called, and his voice sounded weak, scratchy. “Hey,” he said after a few minutes. “I gotta go. Here’s my dad.” I don’t remember much of that conversation except for one word: AIDS.

I wanted to come visit him, but he begged me not to; I think he wanted me to remember him as he was. I continued to call, he sounded weaker each time. Finally I called and the hospital operator said they didn’t have a patient by that name. Everything blurred as I hung up. I thought about all the times at UF he probably wanted to tell me, but didn’t. He shouldered his load alone.

I often wonder what life would be like if he was still around. I envision him as gay Uncle Frank in Mrs. Doubtfire, lavishing my kids with expensive stuff on birthdays and Christmas. He was the first one in his family to go to college; he went to law school and worked at a prestigious firm in Ft. Lauderdale. By now, he’d be a senior partner. He wouldn’t need to live a double life. We’d laugh and reminisce about our time at UF.

But that’s not possible and he’s been gone 30 years now.

I put the card in the keep pile, got up and closed the bonus room door behind me. No more for today.

So long, my friend. Miss you.