P. EMERSON TAPLEY

P. (for Paul, I think) Emerson Tapley died in Toronto's Women's College Hospital on a Wednesday in August 1999. He was about 53. He was a person of no fame.

In his lifetime Emerson Tapley earned no notoriety, had few friends, made very little impression, won no great love, struggled with ill health and adversity for a meek and bare existence -- and finally was stripped even of that.

Why have I written about him?

I have written about him precisely because of these things. Because he was treated cruelly by life, and by those around him. Because he was unlucky.

Emerson was a gay man from a lower-class family. Apparently, they were very vulgar. Emerson did not fit. Somehow he acquired more sensitive tastes that his working-class family was unable to share. In adult life he was close only to one of his brothers. But that brother died a year or two before Emerson; so he was alone.

Physically, he was unimpressive. Under five and a half feet tall, Emerson had a very round bald skull and a soft, roly-poly body. His voice was high, soft and nasal. He tended to drone.

I met him through my sweetie's quilting group, the East Toronto Quilter's Guild. Of a membership of about 50, Emerson was one of only two males. I think both were gay.

Emerson lived alone in a bachelor apartment on Kingston Road, Toronto. Having been disabled by arthritis, he was on a pension. He dressed neatly and very conservatively. He was often seen in one of those little feathered narrow-brimmed fedoras that older men sometimes wear, and a tan duffle coat. Toward the end of his life he had a Chiahuahua dog named Tico, tiny even for a Chiahuahua. It was the same color as Emerson's coat.

Emerson was so unimpressive that I remember little about him. I have no colorful incidents to relate. He came by our house several times, to talk with Bee about quilting. The last time, I remember him in his hat and coat. He said that he was ill. I think he may have mentioned some liver disease.

My sweetie and I decided to visit him one Friday. We wanted to be sure he was all right.

It was a sunny, pleasant day. We walked pleasantly along Kingston Road to his building.

When we got inside his apartment we were shocked.

First, the place stank. It had an odor I have never smelled before. I never want to smell it again. It was a stench -- a stale, rotten, sulfurous choking stench. It got inside the nostrils and lungs and would not leave. It made breathing difficult. For a month I could not stop smelling it.

Emerson was lying on a mattress in the living-room portion of his bachelor apartment. He couldn't get up. He had been lying there for several days . . .

His dog Tico was racing around yipping. The floor was scattered with weird black pellets. A bowl of dog kibbles was on the floor. I drew it to my nose and sniffed. They stank. Not as badly as the apartment, but they stank. I sat down to catch my thoughts while Bee talked worriedly to Emerson. I wondered idly what the pellets were on the floor . . . Raisins? They looked . . . too big and flattened for raisins.

Suddenly, it hit me. Dog shit! Of course! Dog shit! Idiot! Idiot!

While Bee talked with Emerson, concern growing in her voice, I searched the apartment, found broom and pan, and cleaned up Tico's shit.

Bee got Emerson water.

We looked at each other. Bee began to explain to Emerson that he had to go to the hospital immediately.

Bee and I called 911, our voices shaking. An ambulance would come. I tried to force open the windows or turn on the ancient air conditioning to lessen the apartment stench.

The stench . . . was Emerson.

I knew that people don't survive long with a fading liver. My dear friend Marshall Bruce Evoy had died the year before of liver failure. Emerson was bloated around the belly, and his ankles were hugely swollen. I knew these signs meant a failing heart. His skin was dry and hot and greenish-yellow. It felt like hot leather. When I touched him, helping him to a chair, his stench came off on my hand. It got on my clothes and body.

Bee assured Emerson that Tico would go to a good home. I hurried down the hall to the street to guide the ambulance attendants to Emerson's apartment.

They arrived. Two young white fellows. They smiled, and kindly treated and assured Emerson. They efficiently strapped him to the gurney and efficiently loaded him aboard. I opened every window I could. We took charge of Tico. Bee found him a good home a day later.

We visited Emerson in the hospital on the Sunday two days later. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. There was nothing to be done. Bee asked him what he wanted. "To disappear." We were assured he would die without pain. Fluids would build up on his brain, then press him into unconsciousness. A woman he had known some years ago came to visit him, and stayed with him for some time.

That was Sunday. Emerson died on Wednesday.

[To Be Revised]

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