Rediscovering Bo Huston

I really didn’t know Bo. He was a friend of a friend, and since both of us were aspiring writers, I guess we were weary of each other, like competitors in a warped race, like two high school athletes vying for that one open spot on the varsity team. I know, ridiculous.

I was going out with Connie at the time, and I often hung out with her group of friends. Two of which we became close to. Andy was a beautiful gay man who modeled in The City and spent summers in Provence Town. He was slender and thin, with a chiseled jawline, full lips, and wavy dark brown hair that swooped low over his forehead. He always wore expensive chic clothes. I assumed his money came from family, but I never asked. Maude was also gay, a lesbian who didn’t especially like hanging with the other lesbians on campus who could be harsh in their assessment of fashion and anything male. Maude had her own style—brightly colored jeans, a tank top, and just the right amount of makeup. She wore her hair crew-cut short and bleached white. Andy and Maude hung out together, joined at the hip most of the time. Connie and I became their good friends. Funny, Maude always wanted to sleep with Connie, and Andy would make advances on me. Sorry (Scott), nothing happened.

Then there was Bo. He was gay, and maybe only because of that, often hung out with Andy. Bo was definitely not into fashion or spending summers in P-town. And Bo was not beautiful like Andy. He was slender with a nice build, but his face was left pockmarked by horrible teenage acne. I was an acquaintance because often all five of us, along with others, would sit at the same round table for dinner at the Saga dining hall. He wasn't an open, approachable person, and I wasn’t ever what you would call effusive. So, we rarely spoke with each other outside, "Please pass the salt."

There was also this writing thing between us. While we should have been close based on the similar interest, we just weren’t. Writing for me, and I’m sure Bo, was a deeply personal thing. To be good, really good, you put your deepest thoughts on paper. You make yourself vulnerable. Then it’s out there for the world to witness. I was, and still am, extremely affected by readers' opinions, and the more intelligent the reader, the more well-read, the more affected I am.

Both Bo and I published in the college literary magazine, and once, his short story was right next to mine. They could be compared and judged. Of course, both Bo and I were well-read, and we both studied writing, so we both could be the readers who could effectively affect each other. So, we kept our distance and didn’t discuss our writing. And to be honest, I was jealous of Bo. I thought he wrote so much better than me, more effortlessly. I thought he might tell me my stuff sucked. He also had a cool author name, while “Kurt Johnson” seemed lame.

A few years ago, for whatever reason, I remembered his name and looked him up on Amazon. He’d been published (now I’m jealous). He’d written short stories and two “novels” all back in the 90’—quotation marks because both were more novellas with less than one hundred fifty pages. A red flag for me because I didn’t think you were the real thing, a “novelist,” unless you could put together a novel-length book, or two or three. I Googled him and learned that he died of AIDS in 1993 when both of us would have been 34. I bought one of his books, now out of print. I think I paid around three dollars plus shipping.

Here's what I expected or maybe wanted—maybe because he’d only written novellas. I thought his writing would be immature, showy with elaborate detail that impeded the story, a contrived plot, and worse, pandering. I saw that his publisher was Amethyst, one that specialized in gay literature, only in paperbacks. I thought Bo’s work would be riddled with gratuitous gay sex, pandering to lust, or maybe pretentious with literary references and glaring symbolism. The book I read was called Remember Me. Well, you can guess, I was wrong.

Here's the thing. The writing was fresh, deeply honest, and insightful. Insightful to me implies a unique insight into the human condition and an artist’s eye for detail that goes beyond symbolism and metaphor to a place that shows organic connections. Simple things like Bo’s protagonist seeing a man at a hospital and noticing his shirttail coming loose from his pants. The loose shirttail implies a carelessness due to an urgent situation—you feel it—but it doesn’t scream symbol.

Another thing. The book is short on plot, and a writer can only ignore plot when the voice and insights of the protagonist can carry the narrative which may only be a kind of personal transformation, the emotional arc. I can’t do that. John Updike can, also Saul Bellow and Bernard Malamud. Others, but the list is short. Many writers fail trying, leaving a bored and/or confused reader.

It took me a while to really get what Bo was after. I knew from the beginning that his protagonist has some medical issues, but nothing is spelled out. Then he runs across an old acquaintance who was once beautiful but now wasting away from AIDs. I had to ask myself, did Bo know he had AIDs when he wrote this?

I found Bo’s Wikipedia entry. He’d been a typesetter in New York and then San Francisco before learning he had AIDs (a man who worked with words). Upon learning of his diagnosis, he quit his day job to concentrate on writing. He wrote this book.

Then, of course, it becomes evident to the reader that Bo’s protagonist has AIDS. I paged back to see when the book was published, 1991, but in my reading of that publishing page, I looked at the writer’s name, written, Bo Huston, 1959- . No end date. (Writers never add the detail of their birth on that page of mostly publishing jargon.) He knows he’s going to die soon; the only question is when. The writing of his book is a race against death.

Then of course—of course—the book is about death, what it means and what you leave behind. The protagonist does not believe in God or an afterlife. He is also a writer. A couple of notes here: The book is written in first person, but the character’s name is never revealed. Then, the book’s title, Remember Me. There’s no person’s name here to remember. But the character is a writer, and he’s written a novella that might be published. He has a publisher interested, but that person wants more plot and a better ending. Ok, see all the connections?

So, Remember Me. Does the book get published? Will anyone Remember Me because of the art I’ve left behind?

I left Hampshire College and kept in touch with no one. Connie is still alive and seems happily married—from what I can glean from Facebook. I’ll remember her for so much. I don’t remember Andy’s last name, but if he survived the AIDS pandemic, I’m sure he made a significant impact on the NYC fashion world. Maude, if that was even her real name, was so ballsy and smart and artistic. I can see her as some movie mogul, creating memorable films and bossing people around. Bo? There are a few souls trying to revive his work, but the going is slow. I’m not sure anyone is buying.

But I’ll remember!