I met George the first day I arrived at my dorm at the University of Texas. His room was connected to mine by a common bathroom. He was intelligent, and although he was my age, was definitely more mature. He was the youngest of seven children. He had six sisters. His father was Syrian and his mother was half Syrian and half Italian.
His room had a refrigerator and range and he always had something tasty cooking. He mother sent “care” packages loaded with food on a regular bases. I got my first taste of Syrian food from him. The Dorm had around a hundred young men as residents. There were only about a dozen rooms with cooking facilities. The ranges didn’t have exterior venting, so whenever George would start cooking something, a never-ending number of guys would be knocking on his door to see what was cooking. Guys at this age are always hungry. A few would bring stuff for George to repay him, but most were just scrounges that never brought anything. I came up with an idea that George loved.
The next weekend I went home, I went to my Dads poultry processing plant and picked up a five-pound box of “Turkey Fries”. Turkey fries were a by-product of dressing a turkey. That brings up something I never understood. They called it a “dressing” plant, but it really was more like undressing. At any rate, I brought the “fries” back to Austin and George and I battered them with egg and flower and started to fry them. The aroma was heartbreaking and it only took about five minutes and there were a dozen hungry guys at the door. We started serving the fried “fries” and could have used ten pounds. All that could be heard was “uhhhhs” and “Ahaaas” After all the “fries” were consumed, one of the guys asked, “What exactly is a Turkey Fry”? I winked at George and he smiled back and I said. “ A Turkey fry is a turkey testicle” Everyone evacuated the room and I think a few had to vomit. During the next few weeks, no one knocked on George’s door when he was cooking. George and I hung around together a lot that year. We had a lot of the typical college room arguments that went on for hours. It’s what young men that know nothing about life like to do. I had broken up with my girlfriend and was not looking for any new relationship at the time. I wondered why George never talked much about girls. He was what any girl would have considered good looking and was always a good dresser. He particularly liked the Madres shirts that were popular at that time. I flunked out after two semesters and moved to Houston. That summer, a friend of mine and I went to Big Bend and then Ruidoso New Mexico where my father owned a vacation home. We stopped in El Paso and picked up George and we all spent a few days there.
George moved to Houston and got a job. We would get together every once and a while and go to movie or get something to eat. Later, I moved to New Orleans and lost touch with George. A year later the draft board was breathing down my neck, so I joined the Navy. While returning home from boot camp, I stopped over in El Paso and called up George. He was going to school and working nights in a slot car racing center. He was working, so he had a friend pick me up and I spent a few days with him before continuing home.
I got stationed overseas and over the next few years sent George post cards and a few letters. He never answered. After leaving the service I got married. A few years later my wife and I were on a road trip to California, so we stopped in El Paso to see George. I talked to his mother and she gave me his office number. I called there and after some hesitation, was told he was out of the office. I understood that he was probably not interested in seeing me. Ten or fifteen years passed and while going through some old photos, I came across one of George and me from my college days.
I decided to give one last try to contact George. I still had his home phone number from 20 years prior, so I called. His mother answered. I explained whom I was and was not totally convinced she remembered. She said she did but I was not sure. I asked her where George was and could I get his number. This is how she answered. “ George was Gay. He got AIDS. He killed himself.” Before I could express any condolences, she hung up. I was numb as I remembered all the times I was with George and all of the all-night dorm discussions we had had. I remembered all the verbal bashings I and others had directed towards “queers”.
George was a good guy.
How ignorant and naive I was.
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