Scott Baker

Scott Monroe Baker was made of sunlight and stardust. And he was my best friend. We spent much of our youth together, tripping in and out of each other’s lives, living together, loving together, travelling separately, sending letters, meeting up again with open arms.

Scott’s mother gave her baby, born in 1952, a middle name that referenced a rising Hollywood star: their last name was the same as Marilyn’s birth name, but also, as time would reveal, Scottie proved to be as radiant as his namesake. And, like her, he died too young.

He was a visual artist and a dancer. And we danced our way through the last of the 70s at every disco in Toronto, including at a gay nightclub for men only. I had short hair then, and he dressed me in his clothes. It was fun to be in Club Manatee with my friend but I got kicked out moments after we hit the dance floor.

Scott and I both studied dance with Nadia Pavlychenko in Toronto. During one class, Nadia admonished him for tension in his body, saying he had a “tight ass”. Without skipping a beat, Scott replied, “I wish.”

We first met in an acting workshop in Vancouver. He had a fabulous head of curly hair and a small saffron sun painted around his left nostril. We recognized each other as kindred spirits right away. And his Maple Avenue apartment became the first of his many places where he let me crash. He always took good care of me. If I was down with a cold he was there to make a hot lemon and honey brew, if I needed sleep he had a bed for me, if I wanted a dance partner he was game. His support – emotional, artistic, and in every other way – was unflinching.

In his apartment in the Beaches, he painted a fantastic dragon mural on his living room wall. And every one of his homes had crystals and plants hanging near windows. At night those windows were covered with gorgeous vintage, velvet curtains and the crystals sparkled in the glow of his antique lamps.

I inherited one of those lamps. It has been with me for many years (so many he’s been gone but seems like yesterday that we were dancing) yet the bulb that was in it when I received it, 33 years ago, still works, casting that same golden light that it did in his apartments. I also inherited the velvet drapes but somehow they are not as good on my windows as they were on his.

One of our fave songs was Coyote by Joni Mitchell. Whenever I hear it now I can see Scott dancing through his various apartments, lithe like a coyote. Our last shared music was by the Fine Young Cannibals. We danced to Roland Gift’s vocals during Scott’s final summer, a confusing time of raging against the dying of the light and a denial that that light could ever be extinguished.

I didn’t think it could. So I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye. My anthem after his death became Lou Reed’s No Chance (Regret): “But your optimism made me think you really had it beat/So I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye/No, I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

The last time I talked to Scott was over the phone. He was calling to say he couldn’t make our mutual friend’s art opening after all. He ended the call with “So long, Marie” and I knew in my heart what that meant. I always wished I’d seen him just one more time. But sometimes when I think about him, it’s as if he’s here, telling me “It’s okay.” Quoting Joni, he adds: “No regrets, Coyote.”