Oh, Marcus

I met Marcus a few years back. We were introduced by my one friend who lives in Edgewater one Spring morning at what I later learned was his favorite spot: the Starbucks coffee shop on Bryn Mawr near the Hollywood beach. Marcus and my friend went way back. They had hung out together for about thirty years and were part of a big group of friends that I joined, especially because we were all interested in the same things and because they were a riot. With the years (and the pandemic) I've seen less and less of the whole group, but still keep in touch with some of them.

The first thing I noticed about Marcus when I met him was how uncannily similar he looked to Steven Tayler, from Aerosmith. Of course, I imagined he had heard that for years so I never mentioned it. About six feet tall and sinewy, he was all long hair, boho clothes and expressive hands. He did look that day like Steven Tayler. But I did not have to mention it, because Marcus proved from that first day that he was his own man. Very outgoing and an absolute charmer, we were cackling like old friends twenty minutes after we met.

In a previous life, he had apparently been a very successful interior decorator and there were traces of that when I met him. He knew a lot about what was going in Chi in what concerned art and could charm the pants off anybody. Now that I think about it, I really never learned what he did, because when we got together we never really talked about work. We talked about movies, about his latest project with the neighborhood, about his latest infatuation with something chic and about what color I should dye my hair. Very deep stuff. But I also learned he'd seroconverted in the early nineties and that he belonged to a very select group of people who tested several experimental drugs. I was told he was one of the first people to try AZT and cocktails. He told me he did them all and more. He was a guinea pig for all of us.

Marcus had all the stories. All. Of. Them. He came from a nice Jewish family and had Native American blood. When he was younger he had done everything with everybody. His escapades and blackouts had been epic. He told me of this hotel in Florida where all the room doors were open and men came and went at all hours of day or night. He told me of very dark, late nights in Lincoln Park. He told me he liked black men above anything. They affectionately called him Cinnamon, because he was always tanned. Last year he had been dating a very cute guy from Milwaukee or something like that. I learned he had tried all the drugs and that alcohol had been his friend until he quit it cold turkey. He had been in AA for more than ten years. He told me of his meetings in the basement of a church near Edgewater and how everybody was super nice there. Sitting in that Starbucks on Bryn Mawr, I learned of his escapades and I laughed and gasped. Marcus had indeed done everything with everybody. He liked men and sex and was not going to let his status or people's judgment get in the way of some good dick. His adventures were epic. His Joie de Vivre contagious.

That's why this weekend I was shaken to the core when I learned that Marcus had died. Because what the orgies, the glory holes, the alcohol, the drugs and HIV did not take away, tragedy did. I had commented to my friend that something serious had happened in Marcus' condo building because there were some ambulances and police cars blocking the traffic coming from Lake Shore Drive. Jokingly, we said we needed to know what had happened because really, all those cars! I even mentioned we should text Marcus to get the tea. Later that day we learned that Marcus had been found dead in his apartment. But the shocking part was that he had not just been found dead. We learned that he was strangled. Somebody had strangled him and had stuffed his body in his own refrigerator. The ignominy. The shock did not let me believe what had happened. I cried when I learned he had died. I then cried some more when I learned how he died. Because nobody deserves that end. Nobody.

I cried because I know Marcus knew the person who killed him. I cried because I know he suffered before he died. I cried because somebody I knew and cared about had been killed. I hope they catch the guy who did it. His building has closed circuit tv and you have to sign in with the doorman when you go visit. I'm sure somebody saw the man who killed him. He should be in some grainy recording. If the police does nothing, his family probably will. I know they have money. I was told that the most probable thing is that a private investigation will be carried out if the CPD finds nothing.

So this post today is dedicated to Marcus. Deep down I'm hoping it was just a kinky date gone wrong, you know? Some Michael Hutchence freak accident, you know? I'm hoping that maybe some rough play just got out of hand because his Dom was not experienced enough and shit happened, you know? But I really don't know what happened. Probably nobody will ever know for sure. I guess I'm thinking that because the thought of sweet, crazy Marcus suffering just makes me wanna cry again. I hope they catch the killer. And I hope they make an example of him. Because anything less will make me very mad. Justice needs to be served.

So ciao, Cinnamon. Your spirit lives on in your friends and family. And in every Aerosmith song.

XOXO

P.S. This one's for you, Marcus. Because I will always remember you in all your kooky glory.