In the early 80s, when my friends were listening to skinny, sullen rock stars with long, tangled, highly-sprayed hair, I stole my mother’s collection of 45s and blissed out to Crosby, Stills, and Nash, the Beatles, and Simon and Garfunkel. My rainbow-embroidered jean jacket and long braided hair earned me curious looks from classmates, but it was the beginning of a long obsession with inspiration from an earlier era. An unsettled feeling has always plagued me. I won’t be so trite as to suggest I have some kind of "old soul," that’s not it at all. Instead, I never felt secure with the present—the past was always much more certain, largely because it’s, well, past.

The idea was not limited to pop culture by any means. (If there’s a way to take something to an extreme, I probably will). It bled into my relationships, too, both with men early on, and then with women once I got a clue. I always fell for people older than I was, never really able to put a finger on why. But I think it’s because they seemed more settled, more established; on the surface, there were fewer uncertainties. Given my rather unsettled young life, there was security with people out of college, in an established career, with a well-honed routine. I felt a longing for the memories they had that I had missed, their generation’s experiences that defined their era. My own life, to contrast, always seemed shaky with too much beyond the horizon. I was never comfortable with my own unknown. My era was as yet undefined. For a long time, that meant I based who I was on whatever life I latched onto at the moment.

One of those experiences I missed was the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. My first serious girlfriend had lost several friendships to the virus in those early years; I admired the passion with which she argued for gay rights following their deaths. As odd as it may seem, I hated not sharing her ache for the faces she showed me in slowly-bleaching snapshots. It seemed like one other (albeit sad) rite of passage I had missed. That feeling doubled when I read Armistead Maupin’s revolutionary Tales of the City series for the first time.

In the 80s, readers—gay, straight, bisexual, and transgender alike—couldn’t get enough of Michael Tolliver, Anna Madrigal, Mona, Brian, Mary Anne and the whole Barbary Lane crew. This "logical family," as Michael calls it, represented the intersection of a number of very different lives. I read them a decade or so after the Maupin wrote the final chapter of the series, and found myself longing for the camaraderie that only comes with time. Michael, who was HIV positive, relied on his friends to comfort him through the death of his lover from an AIDS-related illness. He dealt with what he assumed was his own impending mortality by surrounding himself with the people he loved. Maupin broke new grounds in fiction by creating this quirky group of characters who defied commonly-held notions of ideal and instead represented what some people were just discovering could be, should be, their norm.

Now, almost two decades later, Maupin has released a new novel, Michael Tolliver Lives. It’s not meant to be billed as another book in that early series, yet how could it not be? It’s as if Maupin has provided us with an epilogue of sorts. Michael Tolliver has aged (but lived!) and changed, just as Maupin and his readers have. Michael found success with his gardening business and love with his much-younger husband, Ben (this is San Francisco, after all). He’s still dealing with his ultra-conservative Southern family, a matter both complicated and eased by his mother’s own declining health. Also never far from his mind is his HIV status. While it’s under control, it still creeps up on him:

"In my best moments I’m filled with a curious peace, an almost passable impersonation of how it used to be. Then my T cells drop suddenly or I sprout a virulent rash on my back or shit my best corduroys while waiting in line at the DMV, and I’m once again reminded how f***ing tenuous it all is. My life, whatever its duration, is still a lurching, lopsided contraption held together by chewing gum and baling wire."

Tenuous, yes, but Michael’s health has given him a fierce appreciation for living in the present—a feeling that his youthful husband nurtures, even as Ben longs to be a part of those old memories, too: " ‘Let’s do it, then,’ he said. ‘I want to go everywhere you’ve been.’ This was all I needed for my heart to swell: a plan for the future, the promise of new memories, one more shot at the pipe dream of forever."

In recent years, I’ve felt that shift happen; instead of wishing away my present by taking on other people’s pasts, I’ve become content with today and willing to think about the future. I finally have my own bank of memories to keep me company, while still honoring the vicarious pleasure I get from my own partner’s past self. I never knew her as the college athlete she was, but I still get a little turned on by the glimmer of jock-hood (she hates that word, but I love the images it evokes) that she often exudes. I no longer wish I were there with her; to be honest, we never would have fallen in love then. What we have now, though, works. My "lopsided contraption" is one that gives me hope.

Maupin’s newest book is an excellent reminder of the humor, love, and buoyancy of the human connection.