Michael's Goodbye Party

"I became an AIDS activist. Michael became a fun drunk… and then not so fun."

Jay Blotcher with his friend Michael Santulli in 1992.

I moved to Manhattan in 1982 and said goodbye in 2001. But, to be fair, New York City had been saying goodbye first. For 19 years, too many goodbyes: sudden, wrenching, tragic. The plague turned my social circle into a disappearing act.

This is about one special goodbye.

***

It is April of 1992. The birthday of my friend Michael Santulli. His close pals—Pia, Dennis, Jackie, Patrick and I—have gathered in the AIDS Ward at Beth Israel Hospital.

For Michael, the worst thing about AIDS is the hospital gown. No fashion accessory can improve that look.

Nobody wants to state the obvious, but our gifts say it all. No appointment books, no new clothes, no watches. Nothing to suggest a future.

I’m here for many reasons—all of them conflicted. Michael and I have been friends since Syracuse University. We moved to Manhattan after graduation and rampaged through bars and clubs and relationships that always ended badly.

And then the break came. I became an AIDS activist. Michael became a fun drunk… and then not so fun.

The author’s friend Michael Santulli in 1983.

When I heard he was sick, I came back. Reluctantly. You see, I’m really a coward. Sure, I get arrested at AIDS demonstrations. But caring for someone with AIDS is too scary. So I’m here to prove myself.

Michael has always been the trendsetter of our group. He’s flaunted preppie and punk, New Wave and Goth. Dressed in Izod sweaters, safety pins, bondage pants and ten shades of dyed hair. For Michael, the worst thing about AIDS is the hospital gown. No fashion accessory can improve that look.

We’re wheeling Michael back to his bed when he announces his birthday wish.

And it’s a doozy.

"I want my ashes put into white balloons and released over Central Park, okay?"

Our resident cynic wants a Hallmark farewell. We nod and smile, thinking we’ll have time to talk him out of this scheme. But too soon, Michael and I are flying in a four-seater plane from Teterboro, on his final trip home.

We’re wheeling Michael back to his bed when he announces his birthday wish. And it’s a doozy. "I want my ashes put into white balloons and released over Central Park, okay?"

Two weeks later, Mr. Big-Time Activist is in Amsterdam for an AIDS conference when Michael’s mom Vicki calls with the expected news.

She says that Michael shared his birthday wish. And she will honor it. But could we help?

Jay Blotcher holding a bouquet of white balloons filled with Michael’s ashes.

So, in mid-September, we gather in Central Park. Not the sky-blue day Michael hoped for; icy rain falls. Everyone is here: Pia, Dennis, Patrick and Jackie. Even Michelangelo. He was Michael’s best friend since college and his Manhattan roommate too. But they parted ways awhile back and Michelangelo never visited Beth Israel.

Vicki and her husband, a silent, gray-haired man, arrive.

We walk over to Strawberry Fields to release the balloons. When we do, each cluster drops to the ground. But one single white bouquet—the perfect combination of helium and Michael—inches upward into the dusk. We’re relieved.

"Here," Vicki says, extending a plastic bag. It holds a Tupperware container with 30 white balloons. I imagine her sitting at the kitchen table, spooning a bit of her son into each balloon and I hate Michael for this.

We set up an assembly line, filling each balloon with helium. The bone chips dance wildly. We tie the balloons in groups of four. The bizarre process has us squelching giggles, like naughty kids in the back pew.

At one point, Michael’s father brings out an Instamatic camera and tells us to hold the Michael balloons high. And he says, “Smile!”

We walk over to Strawberry Fields to release the balloons. When we do, each cluster drops to the ground. But one single white bouquet—the perfect combination of helium and Michael—inches upward into the dusk. We’re relieved.

We decide to scatter the remaining ashes over the lake. As Michelangelo explodes his balloon to do so, the wind shifts. He lets out a yelp. I rush to his side and pick bone chips from his eye. "That's Michael," he says. "He got me back."

At one point, Michael’s father brings out an Instamatic camera and tells us to hold the Michael balloons high. And he says, “Smile!”

Then we stand in a circle and toast Michael with Dom Perignon in plastic cups. Suddenly, a bearded man in ragged clothes emerges from the hedges, carrying a lawn chair. "Hello, folks," he says, and begins singing in a perfect falsetto.

God bless you

You make me feel brand new

For God blessed me with you

He finishes and juts out his palm for spare change. When I explain the situation, he sputters in embarrassment. But he calms down and poses for Dad’s camera before shuffling off.

The ritual is over. But the rain continues.