![]() Some among them were adorned in mementos: faded protest buttons or T-shirts with militant slogans. This was what survivors of the plague looked like. If you knew what to look for, you saw in their faces the burden of a shared past, the years and years of similar services. Even the nimble among them wore haunted expressions. ![]() ![]() ![]() Many of them were hollow cheeked and balanced on canes or on one another, slowed by age or disease or a reluctance to reenter the community of the grieving. Taxicabs deposited luminaries from the worlds of science and medicine, of theater, advertising, and media, of activism, art, and academia, people from all over the United States, from Europe and Africa. Long before the glass doors swung open, a line stretched down the block. They made their way down East Thirty-second Street in Manhattan just after two o’clock, wending sedately toward the stark black doorway of the Cutting Room, a performance space hosting the memorial service for Spencer Cox, one of the country’s most recognizable AIDS activists. The experience of death, which had bound them together a quarter century ago, unexpectedly reunited them on an unseasonably warm January afternoon in 2013. ![]()
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