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Winter 2002. My first relationship was in the toilet. I vowed to stay inside the house. I would assess things as they were, without blinders. I grew lonely after eight months. The flesh holds sway over the body when one is in their early thirties. I went to a dark bar to be among my kind, a shrill and glittery lot. I despised them. The old ones were trolls. The young ones gathered together and clucked like spurned women. I didn’t fit the mold. I liked rock and roll. I wore drab clothes. I didn’t own a single Barbra Streisand record. I stood on the sidelines with a beer in my hand. I shooed away the antiques and watched the young ones create drama. I hated my kind and dreamed of being young, straight and single.
###
My first relationship went south. He was a short muscular Latino. He was built like a linebacker. Things started out well, but some people just aren’t meant to be together. We both had our faults. Square pegs and round holes, as it were. It took me six years to figure it out. He toyed with meth. He spent late nights with the wrong crowd. He became addicted. He became angry. He hit me. I had always believed a person could never hurt or harm someone they claimed to love. The day he hit me is the day our love died.
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I stayed away from bars for eight months. I didn’t want to see faces that would remind me of R—, would ask me how R— was doing, what had happened between us, etc. I didn’t want to answer such questions. They were questions without answers, and they solved nothing.
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In high school people called me faggot. I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t like faggots either. I was sixteen when my father took me aside and asked if I was queer. I lied and said no. It was a tough question for a sixteen year old. There was a hint of disgust in his tone. I’d dated a few girls in high school but it always felt like a lie. The eternal impostor, I often did things simply to throw people off. I'd wear an Iron Maiden shirt on Monday and a Duran Duran shirt on Tuesday. I didn't want people figuring me out. I didn’t like explaining myself. I had friends, but my friends tended to ignore the insults whispered behind my back. I pretended not to hear them just like they did. When my father asked if I was queer I resented the question for what it meant as much as I resented him for trying to figure me out. I didn't ask others what they were. I may have formed opinions but I never spoke them aloud. With queers I didn't have to presume. I knew what they were and they knew what I was.
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After R— I wanted to be away from the bickering and the drama of queer bars. The loneliness was suffocating. The need to be around others like me became so powerful I found myself staring at the clock on Saturday evenings. I turned on the television. I played the stereo. I drank until the room swam. I stretched out on the couch until Sunday morning came along. I did this for eight months.
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Loneliness kills. I opened the door and walked into the night. I’d been away from the bar scene for eight months. It was still the same old drama, the same tired old queens zipping around young meth-head party boys like hungry mosquitoes. I was about to leave when a face in the crowd approached. It was Jerome. I’d met him through R—. He was a friend from R—‘s hometown. They were mutual transplants who occasionally got together to wreak havoc. I didn’t think I’d see you here. It’s been a long time, I said. I’ve been a little gun-shy after R—. I understand. He had a beer in his hand, which I found comforting. Had it been a daiquiri or some such nonsense I would’ve said hello and moved on. We had a few more beers. We decided to duck out before last call. Follow me home, he said. It sounded like a command. His taillights glared like angry jewels against my cracked windshield.
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His apartment was sparsely furnished. A small dining table, two chairs. A one by twelve laid over two cinder blocks served as a coffee table. A print of a black jaguar hung over a black velveteen sofa. A small television sat on a milk crate. It was an off-brand I’d never heard of. Home sweet home, he said. He laughed.
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Jerome was a petite Black man. He stood five six and weighed 120 pounds. He was four years younger than me, which still qualified him as old in the queer world. If he was old at twenty-eight, I was ancient, a mantique. I was heavier than I am now. This counted as two strikes. I was almost out. Was Jerome lonely? Desperate? Did he want what was off-limits eight months earlier? I stood in his kitchen as he pulled a drawer open. A glass pipe, a Ziploc baggy and a lighter were nestled together in a cigar box. Jerome gingerly held the pipe in his hand. A wad of copper wool was bunched at one end. He opened the Ziploc, pinched a few rocks into the end of the glass tube and put the pipe to his lips. I’d had such a pipe in my mouth once before. I vowed I would never do it again. The memories of my brother’s apartment came rushing back. I looked into Jerome’s sink, trying to find an answer. Wanna hit this, he said. The pipe was warm as a lover’s fingers on a winter night. I took the pipe from Jerome. I held a lighter in my other hand. The wool lulled me with its song as the smoke curled its fingers around my brain. Jerome groped my crotch. It was hopeless. There was no going back now.
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We smoked crack in Jerome’s kitchen until it was gone. I was hyperaware of the time. The clock on the kitchen wall hummed and flatlined somewhere around 3 a.m. Its black hands mocked me. Where did I have to go? Who did I have to go home to? R— moved back to Albuquerque after we broke up. There are reasons why it is called a break-up. All the reasons are true.
###
Our relationship ended violently. He hit me in a meth-induced rage. His closed fists opened my lip. I punched back. I was no match for his squat muscularity, his football player’s body. Police were called, photographs were taken. I obtained an order of protection. Our stuff, what little we had, was categorized and divided. A cousin came and retrieved his things. I moved out of the apartment. I went to the hospital. My skull was x-rayed. To check for orbital trauma, my doctor said. The imaging center gave me the films in a large envelope. Take these to your doctor, the attending said. The appointment with my doctor was on a Friday. I looked at the films beforehand. I saw death in black and white, my legal name in the upper right hand corner. No visible damage, my doctor said. May I keep them? Of course, he said. It’s your skull.
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A saint forgives, a fool forgets. I am neither. I have forgiven but I have not forgotten. When I was twenty-one I smoked crack with my brother. I managed to escape with my life. Eleven years later, barely into my thirties, I smoked crack with Jerome. I was not so lucky the second time. The gods looked down upon me and marked my body with the sign of The Beast.
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We made our way to the bedroom, stripped off our clothes and disappeared into a crack-induced haze. I emerged six hours later, slipping quietly into the courtyard of the Valencia Gardens apartments. My head ached, my jaw felt numb. My teeth were seated in my gums but I couldn’t feel them. Was I supposed to?
###
Two days later I developed a rash on the right side of my groin. The rash resembled heat bumps. It was about the size of a silver dollar, nestled in the fold near my testicles. Did this kid have crabs? Herpes? I hadn’t had either, so I wasn’t sure what to look for. I’d always kept my body puritanically clean. On the third day I came down with a fever so severe I could barely walk. I called my father. He came to my apartment. He drove me home and placed me in the guest bedroom I’d once shared with paper sister 1965. It felt like home. Noise hurt, light was excruciating. I couldn’t hold water down. I drank orange Pedialyte, the most disgusting substance on Earth. Paper sister 1965 brought multi-flavored Popsicles. I wanted to enjoy them for her sake but could not. Toward the evening of the third day I was vomiting so violently my stomach had nothing left to offer but green bile. My father called 911. I didn’t want to cause a fuss. Men were suddenly in the bedroom asking questions I didn’t know how to answer. I was moved onto a gurney. I was transferred into the back of an ambulance. I arrived at the doors of the hospital I was born in. Hakuna matata, all that circle of life shit. Would I die in the same hospital? The doctors looked at my chart, laughed at me. This kid doesn’t get out much.
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I had a temperature of 102. This wasn’t good. I was subjected to allergy tests. A lumbar puncture was administered to test for spinal meningitis. A nurse held my right hand. Another nurse held my left. Shortly after the puncture I vomited into a beige kidney-shaped pan. There were too many nurses and too many doctors to count. Are you experiencing any pain? Yes, I said. I was given morphine. A narcotic halo softly caressed the top of my scalp. The hospital light dimmed to a pinpoint. All was well.
###
When I awoke a strange man was hovering over me. It was my attending ER doctor. He held an aluminum clipboard in one hand. He was greying, handsome, mid-forties. Was this heaven? If so, heaven smelled of piss and rubbing alcohol. I have a few questions to ask, he said. Try to answer them as best you can.
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Have you recently engaged in any dangerous activity? Not that I’m aware of. Have you recently ingested, smoked or injected any illegal substances? How to answer? Yes. What was it? I smoked cocaine with a friend about three days ago. Have you recently engaged in any unprotected sex? I scanned the room quickly. It was only me and the doctor. A curtain separated me from the poor sap in the next bed. Yes. How long ago? About three days ago. Was this the same person you smoked cocaine with? Yes. The doctor wrote something on his clipboard, flipped a page over and wrote something else. Would my insurance be notified? The doctor placed a hand on my arm. This looks strongly like seroconversion. I’ll have to run a few more tests. Zero conversion? What was he saying? In the thirty-two years I’d been alive I’d amounted to nothing? I don’t understand, I said. Seroconversion, he repeated. I believe you’re HIV positive. A nurse came into the room. She stayed with me. She asked if I was in pain. I said yes. I was given more morphine. I drifted off. I did not dream.
###
I recommend your primary care physician refer you to a specialist from this point forward. I don’t understand. I thought it took years to show signs of exposure to HIV? This can really happen in three days? Absolutely, he said. Different people respond to the disease differently. For some, symptoms of exposure may take two to four weeks. Others may take a month or more. In your case, you exhibited symptoms after three days. It’s not unusual.
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My primary care physician gave me the name of an HIV specialist. I didn’t want a new doctor. She said it was necessary. We said goodbye. My new doctor was a bit of a mother hen. He nagged me about my alcohol and drug abuse. He said unprotected sex was a big no-no. Was he my doctor or my coach? I was tested for HIV in his office. The test came back negative. This doesn’t mean anything, he said. It could be a false negative. I was exposed to the virus in November 2002. My new doctor wanted to see me in three months. He would draw my blood and test it again. Come see me in February, he said. If anything unusual happens between now and then, give me a call.
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I called R— a few weeks after I was exposed to HIV. We exchanged a few noncommittal sentences. I asked him how much he knew about Jerome. I think I might be HIV positive, I said. Is Jerome sick? You slept with Jerome, he asked. Yes. I was drunk. It was stupid. Silence. Was he gloating? Jerome’s been positive for five years, he said. How come you never told me? You never asked, he said. Why would I? I didn’t think it was important. His voice was rising. He turned the phone away from his face. Mom, _____ is HIV positive!
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I was angry with Jerome. I thought of my father’s .38 Special, the one he had given to me for protection. It sat in the top drawer of my nightstand. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to shoot him in the face. What did I care about a prison sentence, the death penalty? I was already dead. I was in a daze for weeks. I walked the walk of a dead man. Food was tasteless. Masturbation lost its hold over me. I was free at last. Should I bother paying my bills? The anger stayed with me for months. I called my father. What should I do? You’ve got to let that anger go, Son. It’s not hurting anyone but you. I’d like to kill that motherfucker. I know. But you can’t.
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I saw the mother hen in early February. He drew my blood. He ran some tests. I’ll call once the test results come back. It could take a few weeks.
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It took eight days. You’re HIV positive, he said. I’m sorry. He said this over the phone. The words punched me in the gut. I’m not going to put you on any antiretroviral medication for now. Come see me again in May. We’ll test your blood and look at your numbers. He explained what my numbers meant. Sometimes they would be in the low six hundreds. Sometimes they would be in the high four hundreds. The doctor visits were always the same. Blood draw. Testing. Waiting. Results. We would perform the dance four times a year. I got to know Dr. Mother Hen very well. The mood swings, the finger-shaking, the rare moments when a smile appeared from nowhere. He was in his late forties but already his head was a shock of white hair. My numbers dropped significantly in my fifth year. You need to begin antiretroviral therapy, he said. It will take some getting used to. Your body will rebel, but you’ll be fine.
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When Thomas Bernhard received a minor award for literature in 1968 he said Everything is ridiculous, when one thinks of Death. To the winds bearing down upon us death is meaningless, and the truth is ultimately unknowable. I felt an animal sadness. I would die as each of us do, knowing very little of myself. Loved ones would forget the shape of my name on their lips, the classic monosyllabic simplicity of it. I tried finding sugar in the salt. Very few men know how they will die. I would. It would begin with a simple cough, a sneeze. Someone would firmly plant their head cold into my lungs. There would be a trip to the hospital in a speeding ambulance. There would be tests and IVs, curtains drawn as nurses smiled down upon me benevolently. I would catch up on shows I hadn’t seen since childhood. The Price is Right. The Young and the Restless. I would stop eating. Hospice would be discussed. Eventually I would slip into a coma. Death would come in the early morning hours as the world yawned. I would be unplugged, archived, and rolled downstairs with the others. I would hold congress with the dead. We would swap war stories. We would laugh at the living. Stupid fucks, we’d say.
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I’m dying. Such a simple sentence, but it contains worlds. HIV positive, late stage. Your CD4 count is below 200, my doctor said. This is a tipping point. A T-cell count below 200 is classified as AIDS. Very rarely does the body recover from such an event. French mathematician Rene Thom defined catastrophe theory as the value of the parameter in which the set of equilibria abruptly change.* Simply put, I’m SOL.
*Wikipedia
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My face is gaunt. I’m down to 142 pounds. Don't bury me just yet. I’ve had good times. I’ve scaled peach trees, their blossoms pink explosions in late spring. I’ve caught honeybees in Gerber jars. I stared at my captives for hours, fascinated by their simple beauty. I’ve raised pigeons in plywood cages. I learned their language and stood among them as they bobbed their heads indifferently. I had a new bike under the tree on my tenth Christmas. I’ve known the joy of scaling trees taller than a house, jumping from a roof and landing on my feet without a scratch. I kissed a girl for the first time when I was eight years old. I can still recall her face, her name. When I am dead all this will be gone.
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When I was young my belly was hard and smooth as a dinner plate. It now beckons the knife. My legs have lost their shopping cart definition. My irises were once a crisp brown, the seeing but unseeing eyes of Kafka. Shadows move across them. My lazy eye has grown lazier. My energy level is down. This is a side-effect of the HIV. My doctor says I can take testosterone replacement therapy. I don’t see the point. Sexual escapades are for young people. I now prefer silence, the stillness of a dark room. I see beauty in peach blossoms and overgrown backyards. An old wooden garage in an abandoned corner of the backyard provides consolation difficult to find elsewhere. Sitting in a dark bar in the afternoon makes me realize how much I miss my father. See the world while you’re young, he said. Never pass on a piece of ass. Maybe he was onto something. I should’ve been a better listener.
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My beloved’s eyes are deep green. I will take the memory of them to the grave. My oldest possession is a green Goody comb. I’ve had it since I was a boy. I carried it in my back pocket. It eventually rubbed an impression through the back pocket of my jeans. It was a ghost comb. It lived on in the fabric, wash after wash.
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I have lived a year longer than my beloved Kafka. I only wish for one last thing – a quick and painless death. It is the wish of every man who has come before me. It will be the wish of those to come after.
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Our species is doomed. Who will light a candle for us when we are gone? The planet, free at last, will flourish once again. In a few hundred years all traces of humanity will be wiped from the Earth. Only our empty transmissions will remain, hurtling through space, reaching distant stars long after the artificial light of human intelligence has been extinguished. The boat is filling quickly, but things have a way of leveling out. Those who drowned did so because they needed to. Those who survive shall bear witness. Things come and go, people forget. Time passes over us like a cleansing wave. The beauty of time, if there is such a thing, is that it erases everything. Only when we are erased do we become fully complete. Annihilation is completion. Nothing that was alive ever truly dies. It changes shape, becomes something else. Traces of us remain in the fragments. This is called memory.
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Some men live their lives in the light. They perform actions so that others might see them and, in turn, congratulate them. Some men feel they don’t exist if they are not recognized by others. They haven’t learned how to live with silence. My accomplishments are tucked away in a drawer I never open. When I hear men puffing up their insecurities, I turn away. When I see men compartmentalize nature’s secrets, I pray for destruction. I am the Angel of Death. I look out my hotel window much like the figure in George Grosz’ painting titled I Am Glad I Came Back. The light of the world shines upon the living dead. I prefer the darkness.
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p.s. Hey. Let me interrupt the reruns to introduce this excellent new post from the superb writer and d.l. James (Nulick) featuring an excerpt from his newly completed new novel. It's a powerful piece of work, and, in fact, the blog is going to give you an unusual three-day weekend to read and savor and hopefully respond to it. Kind of a Valentines Day gift to you guys, you might say. Please do spend time with it, and talk to James, thank you. And the blog will be back with yet another new post for you on Monday.