The death of Marc Berkley a couple of days after the passing of Tom Buckley forces me and many to face that corner known as mortality. Having survived so much, it still seems that Marc was cheated a little, maybe a bit short changed. He had so much more to do and I can’t think of anyone else who can walk in his shoes. Nightlife drives the driven. It is a place where they can or need to prove something to the world, or more importantly themselves. In the swirl of its sounds and lights and sexuality, lies a fulfilling power that many like Marc and I must tap into to even breathe. The phrase “rest in peace” doubly applies to those who, in life and work (so often the very same thing), find rest or sleep to be the enemy. We are restless types, our brains calculating, planning and plotting even with eyelids closed. I am told that he died peacefully in his sleep after a weekend surrounded by friends in the Fire Island pines. I wonder if in his last few moments he was debating which DJ would be play at his memorial? Who would be the door man? Darryl or Fernando?

It wasn’t easy being Marc Berkley. He would tell me that, or something to that effect, often. He would say it as if I was 6 years old or I had just gotten off some Greyhound bus. He often had a hard time explaining to people why some things were as critically important as he felt. I spent countless hours being berated, cajoled, lambasted and called names, over things like how many more drink tickets were absolutely necessary, or the number of go-go dancers he needed to ensure success (is that how he spelled it?). the yelling would eventually die down to a steady whine, which was always much worse, always unbearable. He wore us down. Marc always made it clear to me that if I didn’t do it his way I was insulting not only him but gay people everywhere. I was indeed setting back the gay pride movement and all the progress ever made—everywhere—that he was going to tell the world, and that everyone, everywhere would blame me for everything. His livid eyes made me see the correct path or at least convince me to find a way out of further abuse. I was always angry with him, but never enough to stay mad. In quiet moments he was just lovely. Smart, funny and true. He always called me Steven knowing that is what those closest to me call me. If he came at me as “Steven Lewis,” I knew I had done something just awful and would soon be told all about it, and be told how to rectify my transgression.

Like so many in the biz, he wanted the public to have a great time above all else. He worked his hardest for any event he was doing, whether it was for loot or pro bono. He was obsessed with making sure that each night was wonderful, magical, important. His work with Empire State Pride Agenda and countless other political and charitable organizations was a meaningful effort for those often not afforded equal rights, or those in dire need. Marc Berkley was a tireless warrior against forces who marginalized the gay agenda. He was adept at throwing a seriously fun event, predicated in a serious problem. When there was a calm in the storm (maybe I had done something half right or not entirely awful), he would reward me with a lesson on something I needed to know, like how to choose a go-go boy or why another operator was even dumber than I. He might then remind me that I was so much, absolutely, unbelievably gayer than he was. He changed so much. He touched so many. He was such a pain. He was such a joy. He was such a big baby. He was such a great man. He made so much possible while often being so impossible. I always felt he was so much more important than he felt he was. Some might disagree, believing in all the bravado and hype, but I always saw him as deeply shy and insecure. His heart, which he sometimes hid from others, was as big as a disco ball. He could have been a much richer man if he hadn’t spread so much cash around.

I went to Pacha on Saturday night for Danny Tenaglia’s birthday party. Everyone was shocked. Some just shrugged as if he owed them 50 bucks or didn’t give him a drink ticket once. Others were unable to grasp the enormity of our loss. I asked Rob Fernandez, Dale, Desmond, and so many others who knew him for anecdotes and received too many to print here .

Claire O’Connor gave me: “Peter Gatien and I had a pet name for Marc Berkley--"007." I lovingly called him just "Double O." He was born an investigative reporter and had the dirt on everyone, which was a very handy talent to have as a party promoter’ .

Dale Araten: “It has been a few years since I have seen Marc, but I knew him for at least 20+ years. Marc was one of the toughest but most HUGE-HEARTED people I knew. He will be missed dearly, but what he has done from HX Magazine and many other great events will be his legacy. Marc was one of the most important people ever in gay nightlife or nightlife in general. Marc was a pioneer and it was an honor for me to know and work with him on many of the huge events he used to put on. Marc opened my eyes to many things in life and he will be missed very much.”

His facebook page, Marc S. Berkley has a hundred others. I can’t believe he’s gone. A memorial service will be held Wednesday or Thursday.