I became friends with John during the summer before our junior year at Lynbrook High School in San Jose. Katie Kintz and I were longtime friends, so since she and John were friends, I got to be, too. He was sometimes known as Mad John in those days. (Did Katie come up with that name? I think so.) Denny Erokan and I started hanging out together in the summer of 1968, so I was then definitely an accepted member of that group. John had a dinner party that August (I think his family was visiting in New York, so he had the house to himself), and he invited Denny, me, Ginny Snyder, Brad Barron. The menu included handmade raviolis and wonderful marina sauce, which John put together with great competence and flair. He had learned the recipe from his grandmother, and he even had his own ravioli mold. I knew how to bake bread and cookies, but John was my first friend who was not only passionate about food but who knew how to cook like a professional chef. And he was all of 16!
We had many beach adventures, complete with the creation of sandcastle and bonfires, kite-flying, and storytelling. Darling Kim Wennerberg would usually drive, because he was by far the most dependable driver of all of us. John and Denny were both great readers and history buffs, so the stories would pour out as the night darkened. I was always an eager audience for their tales and elaborate lies. That was always John at his best, holding court and entertaining. He was a Leo, after all.
Denny and I might have been the ones who introduced the game of Risk to John, since we’d been staging tournaments with some musician friends. But with John, the games became much more elaborate. On the Risk board, we marched armies and invaded countries, but we also created intricate histories and identities for ourselves. Many years have passed since those high school years, but I still remember that Denny was the Sultan of the East Side, while John was the King of Big Sur. Really, with that Lynbrook group, the role-playing was more fun than the Risk game itself!
This is what I remember about John from the early days of our friendship: He had this great laugh that was partly made up of the hiss of air through his teeth (“sss-sss-sss”), followed by a bark of appreciative laughter. He sometimes brought a thermos of tea to school, and more often than not, the tea was laced with vodka. (We thought that was so hilarious, that he was putting one over on the teachers. But it wasn’t really funny, thinking back on it.) He knew more about history and social mores than most of us. He was proud of his Italian heritage, turning against the common pronoucement of his surname (“Mee-lee”) and insisting on the traditional version (“Mee-AY-lay”). He loved music and literature and was quite politically active. His hair was really beautiful in those teen years: shoulder-length, sun-streaked and slightly curly. He affected clothing that was atypical of Lynbrook High students: a cape, high moccasins, jewelry, hats. This was around 1967-70, and Lynbrook’s population was not the hippest. John experienced some teasing from his fellow students (and knowing some of the perpetrators, I know the teasing wasn’t especially benign), but John was nothing if not confident. He stood up for his beliefs and was never afraid to be obnoxious in order to get his point across. He fought with his parents, with his teachers, with the school administration. Even a stay in the psych ward of El Camino Hospital did not break him. He was loyal to his friends, and despite his teenage rebellion, he loved his family deeply. I remember when his dad died, so shocking to that 17-year-old boy. After that, he became closer to his mother and sisters. His brother Bob—so different from John at that time—became one of his best friends.
He came out as a gay man to Denny and me when we returned from living in New York. This would have been in 1975. We were startled, but then, not at all surprised. He attended our wedding in December 1976, but after that, we drifted in and out of each other’s lives. He knew our older kids (Laney, Darcy, Willie) when they were small. He attended quite a few Bammie Awards shows, always treating the evening as a special occasion, always wearing a tux (his own, never rented). We met John’s partner Bill at one of the shows. John was never one to skimp on anything when it came to taking care of those he loved. For one show, he rented a huge suite at the Fairmont Hotel and invited friends and family members. His friend James, a chef, prepared an elaborate repast for before the show. John insisted on looking after Denny. As producer of the show, Denny was used to taking care of the performers and presenters, running around like crazy to make sure that nothing went wrong. John, always the nurturer, made sure that Denny had the choicest appetizers and something to drink—just like the Italian grandmother character that he often channeled. After the show, John hosted another party in his suite, and what a rockin’ party it was. I remember Bob Weir of the Grateful Dead ended up there—obviously, he had heard that this was a party worth his attention.
The last time I saw John was at an outdoor event to commemorate Lynbrook’s 25th anniversary. People of all ages roamed the campus. Denny stood at a makeshift stage, acting as master of ceremonies for a jam band made up of former classmates. Then, John stepped toward me out of the crowd. He looked older than his age, with lines (of pain, as I soon realized) bracketing his mouth. Everyone else seemed to be wearing typical San Jose summer attire (shorts, t-shirts, sandals), but John was dressed like T.S. Elliott, or maybe a British professor straight out of Central Casting: bespectacled, tweed suit, rakish bow-tie, wingtip shoes, suspenders, cane. Even though the day was quite warm, this outfit seemed to suit him. We sat down together, and the first thing he told me was of his diabetes, and the loss of his leg. He kept looking around and shaking his head. Many years had passed since he last set foot on the campus, and the memories that the place called up were not all happy. Tears came to his eyes as he recalled the boy he had been, and the dreams that he had nurtured. It was definitely a bittersweet occasion for him, and I noticed his frailty. He told me about his family, speaking lovingly of his nieces and nephews. I showed him a photo of my four children. That was the last time I ever saw him.
Eternal rest give unto thy servant John, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him
