Remembering Anthony "Buddy" Anthos

As many times as we spoke I never knew his real name. I'm not sure I even knew him as Buddy. He never asked me my name. When we encountered each other it was casually, briefly, somewhat impersonally, at a bus stop, or while sitting at nearby tables at a campus restaurant, or when nodding hello at the Main Branch of the Detroit Public Library, where he seemed always to be busy and contentedly researching "things" online.
Even so, I learned bit by bit of his interest in anything having to do with the Titanic; his longtime and devoted friendship with MGM actress Ava Gardner; his dislike for what Gov. John Engler was doing to Michigan, and, as a senior citizen, his plans "sometimes soon" to relocate to Seattle. (Funny, but we never spoke openly about being gay.)
I also saw from observation that he kept himself busy, even though his steps were often slow, his shoulders somewhat burdened, and at times he seemed someone unsure of himself negotiating inner city encounters. Once in awhile I'd hear him happily humming or singing to himself, while carrying books, papers, movie memorabilia. He'd smile hesitantly and keep going — two seniors politely going about their respective business.
It was a warm summer night last year when I saw him on neon-lighted, busy Monroe Street in Greek Town. I was startled. The transformation was unexpected. He was standing on a conspicious corner, dressed in a velveteen tuxedo jacket, and wearing a spangled shirt. His cheeks were lightly rouged. His snow-white hair had specks of glitter. He held his head regally high, his hands gracefully poised midair — much like an adored film starlet — flashed a bright determined smile — and sang show tunes in a sweet, satiny voice. Out of sight on an opposite corner, I was deeply touched at his courage.
Sadly, he sang for passing strangers who preferred to gamble or dine rather than stop for a moment to listen to the heartfelt replay of one older person's dreams of days long gone by. If no one noticed, it was, nonetheless, his moment of self-recognition. Alone. Center stage. A star, however brief. Now gone forever.