Frank

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