Today is World AIDS Day. I feel like I should take a moment and talk about my one of my friends who died from this terrible disease. His name was Dave K. Dave was a cranky son-of-a-bitch. I got to know him during my stint as assistant manager at B. Dalton Bookseller. I remember working with him and I would always get upset because he couldn't climb the ladders or lift the heavy boxes when we got freight shipments. However, Dave was incredibly smart, well-read and knew everything about all kinds of music; his forte was jazz.

We had a tenuous working relationship because he would say things that would be a little off color at times. For some time, I was always on guard around him. When I came out to most of my co-workers, for some reason he became friendlier to me. At that point I couldn’t figure out why. Then one day, we went out for drinks during our lunch break and he told me he was HIV positive. He was a hemophiliac and got a bad transfusion during the 80s. It became clear why couldn't climb ladders or open boxes; if he did he might get hurt. For a while I felt shitty about thinking of all the bad things about him. From that moment on though, we bonded and hung out a lot.

At work we would always work at the register and scowl at the people who would come in and ask for the latest Danielle Steel novel or some piece of crap. He would always try to up sell some esoteric novel to the hapless patron to no avail. I’d just laugh. On Friday nights, we would go to the Old Temperance House in Newtown and have a good meal, smoke cigars, drink and listen to the jazz musicians. We would always close the place.

As the years progressed, he got worse. He wasn't able to work anymore because his health was deteriorating, but we still would go to the Temperance House for a night of good entertainment. Then in the summer of '94 he was hospitalized with pneumonia. His mom wasn't sure if he was going to make it. I went to visit him and he was still the cranky bastard I knew him to be. He got better and was released from the hospital but he was never the same after that. I guess when you are on Death's door, your perspective changes. One of the last times I saw him, he said that he was scared of dying. At that moment I felt completely powerless. He lamented about the fact that he would never have a girlfriend or have a real intimate relationship with a woman. At that point he began to cry and there was nothing I could do to allay his fears. I just told him that he was going to be OK, but in my heart I knew that wasn't true.

A few years had passed and he was on the rebound. He was taking a cocktail of anti-biotics and had gained some of his weight back. He was his cranky self again. The fall of '96, I had to go to the main campus Of Penn State University for a few days to get trained for my teaching internship. When I got back to Philly, Dave's mom called and left a message on my machine stating that he had died over the weekend. I was stunned. Since Dave was Jewish, his mom had his funeral service on that Saturday and had him buried. She told me that some of his college friends were going to meet over her house and reminisce about the good times they had with Dave. I told her I would make it—but I never did go. I guess I just didn't want to think of Dave in the past tense, or even that he was dead for that matter.

Now, ten years later and I still think of that S.O.B. I miss his weird sense of humor, his passion for a decent drink, his love of literature and his uncanny ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time. What I wouldn't do for one more night just to hang out with him at the Old Temperance House. Dave, tomorrow night I will be sure to have a drink in your name.