Frank
The
happenstance passage of a noisy truck in front of the farm last night awoke me
from a sound sleep. It was one of those
times when the awakening is so abrupt you remember the dream you were involved
in. That brings me to this story.
My dream was
about a long gone friend, Frank DiCecco.
The story of the dream couldn’t possibly match the reality of my trip
with this man, so I want to tell you about He and I, while the thoughts are
forefront in my mind.
Frank was Dr
Frank DiCecco, a doctor of biology and professor at Truman College,
Chicago. Frank was also a body builder.
He stood about 5’8” but had a chiseled
physique. He took very good care of
himself not only with daily gym visits but in diet and in care of his skin, the
softest I ever felt. He was very much the Italian with beautiful olive
complexion, dark hair, and an infectious pixie smile that could win anyone
over.
Frank
collected antique Chinese Celadon and had a love of old Persian carpets, which
were throughout his house. He was an
excellent cook and collected art of upcoming artists. He cultivated orchids and
had a small greenhouse . He built a
harpsichord from a kit and then taught himself to play it. He jaunted around in a vintage 70’s-something
Volvo P1800 automobile- probably the only sports car Volvo ever made.
I met Frank
through an ad placed in the Advocate, the singular national gay newspaper of
the day. There was an insertion for a gay winetasting group forming in Chicago
and I answered it. Frank did too. The
group formed and we had several decade’s long run of tastings together .
Through that group I initially met Frank and we became friends.
Frank lived
on Berwyn Avenue, an old Polish bungalow neighborhood far north in
Chicago. Many times I would come into
the city and stay the weekend. Frank had only one bedroom with a standard bed
and no sofa so I would have to sleep with him.
He slept in the nude and required me to also. Nothing ever happened- not for my imagination
being fulfilled, but while inadvertent touches in the night would send
electricity through me, Frank slept soundly and nothing ever occurred sexually.
Not that there weren’t erotic things. Frank loved to pose and he was also an
exhibitionist, so he enjoyed me watching him naked in front of the bedroom
mirror as he went through his routine. I cannot tell you the strength needed to
contain my titillation Several times he allowed me to apply oil to his body and
photograph him, the likenesses being used in his escort ads. Oh yes, Frank was
also a hustler, which is a gay male prostitute. He had a separate phone for
that service and at times during our weekends, he would excuse himself and go
out for a few hours, leaving me to read in his study or bed.
But before you judge, let me tell you more about this amazingly complex
and diverse man.
On one
occasion, Frank and I decided to have a formal cheesecake party. We had
engraved invitations made and the guests were requested to wear jacket and tie.
We each made four esoteric cheesecakes and had them displayed on Depression
Glass cake stands on his dining table along with silver Champagne coolers
filled with bubbly. About forty guests
attended our “salon” afternoon, eating and enjoying Frank’s recital of
classical pieces on the harpsichord. It
was talked about in the gay circles throughout that season as “the social event”
On another
day Frank dragged me along on a picnic at the gay nude beach up by Illinois
Park near Zion . He frolicked and posed
very casually in the buff. I had on
khaki club shorts and a polo. I wasn’t as free-spirited as Frank and I didn’t
do public nudity well. But I did enjoy the “scenery,” as well as the shrimp
mousse and salad picnic lunch and wine we brought with. I was excited to be out
of my element as Frank made me very much at ease
These kinds of things I would not do alone and
Frank enriched me with his metropolitan savvy demeanor and zest for the
different. I learned about ethnic cuisine from Frank. We would visit many small
Chicago restaurants throughout the neighborhoods. I went along on architectural jaunts to see
the amazing history in Chicago with Frank, and we extended our winetasting
group knowledge with tastings we did on our own. It was always an adventure
with Frank.
Frank had a
side to him best described as quirky. He would be very warm and close for a
period and then, suddenly, retreat into himself for a span of time, not
returning calls nor getting together. This sometimes went for a few
months. That was just Frank, and I learned
to live with it. There was never any discussion or contention, and at the end
of a reclusive time, I’d hear from Frank all bubbly and going on as though no
time had passed.
As time
progressed Frank took up home remodeling. He was also very adept in handyman
skills and he bought a house on Surf, northside of Chicago. It was an emerging
neighborhood and he felt he could turn it and make money. This project took about two years. At the end of the renovation, Frank bought
the house next door and was going to remodel it, living in the recently
completed home.
Then he went
dark. After four months I was worried as he had never been out of touch that
long. I called. No answer. No machine.
His “escort” line was disconnected.
I did this for about three weeks. One day from work I called and the line
picked up. Some stranger answered. “Who are you,” I queried? It turned out to be a real estate agent
showing the house . He informed me he was surprised the phone was still
connected as the owner had died a month ago and his sister was selling the property
for the estate.
I was
shocked. “Died,” I implored, “how did he die?”
The man had scant information other than he thought the story was the
owner had been murdered. “Oh my God, murdered
?” There was no other contact I had
and no newspaper item in the files. I was distraught.
Finally in
conversation with one of my work colleagues over my frustration in not being
able to have closure, he volunteered to try to solicit something from a friend
he had who was a Chicago precinct police
captain, calling in a favor.
A week or so
later my colleague gave me the captain’s number saying he had information. Trembling, I dialed. A husky brusque voice identified himself as
did I. He related to me the information
he was about to give me was information that was “sealed” by the court and he could only divulge this reluctantly,
with my assurance I would not say where it had come from as it could jeopardize
his job.
The captain
informed me “your friend was living an ‘alternative life style.’“ “Yes, I know
he was gay,” I answered. He went on. “It appears your friend had taken on a
roommate in his house for additional funds.
He was an African-American man. I
don’t have indication for sure but it appears they had a relationship. This fellow and your friend had a strong
altercation and that man took a ball peen hammer and bludgeoned your friend to
death with multiple blows to his head and body.
He was apprehended and arraigned to stand trial for murder in a few
months.” “Do you have any family
contact,” I asked? “I’m afraid this is
the extent of the information I can give you,” he said. I thanked him and hung up, devastated and crying.
And that was
the end. I never had the name of Frank’s
murderer and whether he was convicted. I never got any further definitive
answers. Frank was not particularly a fan of blacks and I could not envision
him involved with such a fellow. So much left unsaid but my dear special,
precious, loving friend was gone . Frank had left with eternal mystery. I still wish I knew more, but that’s it. To this day I shudder cold at that image
stuck in my mind, of that hammer going up and down, up and down into Franks
head. Time doesn’t soften that picture.
I think in a way, I loved him. Maybe that’s just what I want to believe, but
what I know is that I have the memories of great times we had over many years.
I miss him still.
Jerry Wendt August 2015 1470 words
