Mirage

by Perry Brass

  The stories were heartbreaking. Some were obviously phony. "How much money you guys offering, and what do you want me to do for it?" was pretty much a tip-off to scratch a name off the list.

  "What is this, a kinky hustling service?"

  "No, sir."

  "You mean you guys actually want to do something for someone who's got AIDS, and who isn't Halston or Perry Ellis?"

  Who were they, I asked? Then before he could answer, who they were came back to me: "Designers? Right?" He answered yes. "No," I said matter-of-factly. "We're not looking for Halston or Perry Ellis." A lot of black men called. I could pretty much tell them by their voices. They didn't seem desperate as much as blank and hopeless. One man called and told me he wasn't gay. "I'm a brother anyway, I just ain't stuff."

  "Stuff?"

  "Man—you know! Queer, faggot, homo. I ain't that."

  "How'd you see the ad?" I asked.

  He told me these things got around. "DC is a sad city. There is people sleeping in the parks, while the rich dudes ride in limos, like their feet never touch the ground."

  I told him we had to disqualify him. He became more indignant, his voice shredding from desperation.

  "What do I have to do to get help? Suck yo' dick? Man, you don't know what hurt is till you got AIDS and you're black and on the street."

  I tried to understand what he was saying; I couldn't. As much as it hurt me, I had to hang up.

  Another call came in, and another and another. I was tired of all the stories, of trying to sound compassionate or even interested anymore. Not that I wasn't. We were now getting into a world I had no preparation for. I felt in a way phonier than any of the bogus calls we got. We were offering hope to someone, but the hope was so bizarre, so justifiably out of the range of imagination, that it seemed now, even to me—to Alan Kostenbaum, who had recently moved to Washington from a place much further than anyone could fantasize—vacuous. Like offering a teaspoon of water to a man dying of thirst.

  Yet, wasn't that possible: if you believed enough?

  Wright concentrated completely on our work. It was his idea to put the ad in the Blade. He methodically worked out the questionnaire we used, and drilled me in how to act on the phone. Since Alan was the one who was used to dealing with people professionally, I did the phone work; but I needed his support. When I wavered, when I became too nervous even to talk to the men, he put them on hold and held me. "Why are you afraid?" he asked. "This has got to work. You're right, Alan. We're not going to find him in bed. But we've got to get him. Time is running out for us. I know—I can feel it."

  I would get back on the phone and start talking again. "The Smith Foundation. We're here to help. What is your name, and how did you hear about us?"

  While I was handing slips of paper to Wright, with their names, ages, and health status, a fear kept cropping up. It was awful. My insides burned. My throat went stone dry—silent—even in the middle of talking. It was a fear that asked: what do we do when we find the man to bring back? And what is the price he'll have to pay to leave Earth?

  We bought a budget air conditioner and some file cabinets for the room Pat told us was the old office. We started to arrange private interviews there. To keep traffic low, we scheduled our appointments in groups of three. They waited in what had been Holy Resurrection's large outer room, where we kept all the windows open. We brought down one of the electric fans from the bedroom. But it was still pretty hot in there.

  Then we had them come in one at a time to the office to talk. They still drifted in before their appointments, and hung around afterwards in the outer room, shuffling and whispering to each other. They drew together nervously, drank free coffee that we made; smoked cigarettes. I had never seen so many sad men. I didn't think it was possible to be that sad. Their hopelessness hurt the most.

  Late, by the end of the first week, I realized what a blind alley we'd gone down. This was a crazy way to try to find someone. I was exhausted from taking down information; greeting men as they came through the front door; just listening. We reversed the process during the actual interview. Wright did most of the talking, while I took down information, or filed it.

  It was getting dark outside—almost eight o' clock. The outer room was finally empty. A cloud of stale cigarette smoke and bitter coffee fumes hung on it. Many of the men who answered us were already street people. Their clothes were stained with piss. We had ashtrays all over, but the floors and cheap wooden folding chairs were scarred with small burns. We could hear kids playing outside, yelling the usual kid obscenities at one another, about their mothers, and their asses, and their genitals.

  "Well, what have we got here?" I said wearily to Wright. "Should we go over some of the more promising candidates?"

  He took out a clipboard and formally read off several names: "Weeks, Hollis W. Weeks. Sounds interesting. Almost out of his insurance. Not on the street. He's living with a roommate, who's getting impatient. They were never lovers, but it seems the guy wants Hollis out. He's had a few major bouts of opportunistics—PCP, some toxo, no KS yet. Bad shingles."

  "How's his attitude?"

  "Fairly bitter and angry. I even wondered if he was hallucinating some. He told me he wanted to get even with the guy who gave it to him."

  "Did he know who he was?"

  "No. Maybe that's why he's so angry: he keeps wanting to put the blame on someone—maybe that's why his roommate wants him out. Too much rage and sadness. I guess he's hell to live with. Another problem is his one sister. Her name's Audrey. They're not close, but she's nosy. If he suddenly came to stay with us, she'd want to know what happened. She'd be around in a couple of weeks, and that means a lot of prying."

  "Next?" I asked.

  "Thornburg, Raymond, P. Not a bad one. He looks like hell. I think he was actually good-looking at one time. But poor guy, he looks ... geeky now, if you know what I mean. But he's got a good attitude—he's excited about us. He still likes people. He's staying at the Y, since he was thrown out of his apartment. He has a job; he does messenger and temp work when he's healthy. He's from Florida; one of those hard-shell Fundamentalist families. He still has some ties with them, but they refuse to help him since he has 'Cain's mark,' as they call it. I'm not sure if they mean by that he's got AIDS, or only that he's gay.

  "He came out early, was a hustler by the time he was sixteen. He told me he'd hustle old men, and occasionally rob them. One of his johns reported him once, so he was in jail for two years. But he was young then, and he hasn't had too many problems with the police, except that he was into drugs for a while."

  "Do we really want to bring some one like that back to Ki?" I asked.

  Wright thought for an instant, then told me maybe not. "Next is Epstein. Murry P. Do you remember him?"

  How could I forget? "He'll talk our brains out," I said. "I never heard so many complaints in my life—his mother, his father, his uncle, his sister, his job. I wonder what he was like before he got sick?"

  "He probably talked more," Wright said. "I have two more names, but I don't know if they're any better. Alan, this is becoming like those personal ads we read where they want somebody who's so big, so tall, his cock looks a certain way, and he has a sense of humor."

  "Yeah," I laughed. "And he's also got to like opera, gourmet cooking, naked wrestling, football, Judy Garland movies, and make a lot of money!"

  "Exactly," Wright said. "You know, the problem is we can't just bring anybody back with us. He'll have to be adaptable, and somehow he's going to have to be acceptable as you."

  That would be a problem, I said.

  "Of course," Wright said, and started to chuckle, "He'll only have two balls. We'll say that when we took out your egg, you ended up looking like that." I broke into a full laugh. "I mean, the Off-Sexers think we all look alike anyway—so you can look as geeky as you want!"

  I got the idea of what he was saying, but still we couldn't bring just anyone back. "We'll have to educate him. Make him understand Ki.
Wright, I think we've made a mistake. These guys are losers. I feel like a schmuck saying so."

  "A what?"

  "Come on, Wright. You've lived long enough with Alan to know what a schmuck is! Hopelessness is not a criteria for leaving Earth. If it was, there'd be nobody left here."

  Wright put down his clipboard. "What do you think we should do then? We could put in another ad. Maybe change the words. Tell them we want somebody else—somebody who likes opera and goat cheese. What do they say here? It pays to advertise."

  I had to think for a second. I started to go upstairs. I wanted to take a shower. I felt like a grundge, after the day we'd had. The kids outside were making more noise; I realized I had a splitting headache.

  "You're not helping," Wright said, following me up the stairs. "So, Einstein, what do you think we should do?"

  Suddenly, I stopped. Einstein? Einstein . . . Maybe I did have the answer to Wright's question. In fact, he fed me part of the answer. "Let's go to bed," I said.

  "Bed?"

  "Yeah. Just lie down for a minute."

  "Listen, sweetie. I'm not in the least bit horny. And I still feel like a shit after the way I treated you." I sat on the bed, and he started to take his tie off. "How can you still want me to go to bed with you?"

  He was now only Wright again. Everything he said, his voice, his hand gestures—they were right out of Michigan. I pulled him to me, and began to unbutton his shirt. When it was off, he unbuttoned mine, and began softly to kiss my nipples.

  "You know I'm always a sucker for Jewish men with beautiful nipples."

  I started to laugh. "Think I should clip some of the hair from my chest?" I asked, in a low, sexy way. "Makes your tits look hotter and nicer."

  He didn't answer me, but was kissing my chest, and I was getting so excited, lying there next to Wright—this man I was so crazy about, who was suddenly so deliciously new to me—that I forgot for a moment what brought me to suggest going to bed in the first place. He started carefully unbuckling my pants, when I stopped him and remembered.

  "What is it?" Wright asked.

  I sat up in bed. "I was just thinking about Einstein, and what you said, and then I realized something."

  "What, liebling?"

  "If thought waves could get us here, why can't they bring us the perfect man to take back with us?"

  "Interesting," he said. He asked me how I thought we could do it.

  I closed my eyes. I wanted to answer him, but the words escaped me. Like the answer itself was playing hide-and-seek with me.

  I wasn't sure, but I felt that if I could relax enough the answer might come to me. Wright got up and took off his pants and undershorts, then slipped my trousers off. It was nice having him undress me; not thinking about anything, only settling deeper and deeper into a state of relaxation. He clicked on the electric fan that we kept by the doorway, and then peeled off my briefs. My genitals felt cooler, free in the warm, fanned air that was still full of humidity.

  Wright got back into bed with me. The temperature in the room warmed up—either from his hard naked body next to me, or the air outside. I could feel the crackle of a meeting of humidity and shifting air currents. The fan made a soft, purring noise that I found restful. A distant jag of lightning lit the wall on the other side of the bed.

  "You're hot," Wright said to me. "Really. You should feel your body now. It's like you're pouring off heat."

  I thought he was joking. Hot? I didn't feel any hotter. Just warm. Slightly.

  My eyes were closed. I wanted to touch my brow or chest to feel the temperature, but couldn't. It was like I was encased in concrete. Heavy weights loaded my body from the tip of my head to the end of my toes. This complete relaxation had spread so thoroughly through me that I couldn't move. I became aware of Wright's lips blowing over my face. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't open my eyes. His hand hovered delicately over my chest. The soft dark hairs on my chest spiraled in waves of static electricity, following his hand motion.

  His voice got further and further away, as the lightning got closer.

  "You still haven't told me how we're going to do this . . . do this . . . do this . . . do this. . . ."

  Now I was back on Ki.

  The stranger, my half-brother Ert, was lying naked on top of me, kissing me. I opened my eyes and saw his. Blue-green: vast as the sea that afternoon we landed in Jones Beach. There were tall, golden grasses, calf-high, waving around us. I knew we were on the plains of the Off-Sexers, and not in the dark, marshy forests of my home. The grass was as golden as he was. Then he got up. His body was almost hairless and pale, with just the slightest tips of dark pink color on his lips, nipples, and the head of his penis. He got up and walked away from me, back into the grass. After a moment—barely a single tick of time, he was gone.

  My body trembled. There was no rain outside; no lightning at all. Wright held me close to him. "Where've you been?"

  "Back," I told him.

  He smiled. "Well, how are the old folks back home?"

  I couldn't tell him. There was no way to predict how he'd react; I didn't want any part of Greeland—his anger; his jealousy—to return. Suddenly I loved Wright. I pulled his face close to mine, and kissed him so hard I thought I would suck his tongue out.

  "Whoa!" he said, pulling away. "That must have been some trip, without even my hands or mouth on your Egg." He put his hand on my scrotum. "Your Egg's not even warm. Goddamn, Alan, you're starting to get Eggless visions. No cholesterol, no extra calories. How about that?"

  I couldn't answer him. I wasn't even sure he wanted an answer. But I did know that what I wanted was going to happen: this man would come to us on a wave of thought. The question was when—and what would be the outcome once he did.

  "You are lucky," Wright said. "Visions, without your Egg. I envy you. So tell me, did you see anyone we knew back home?"

  "No," I said. "I just went back to the forests—they were so beautiful. And the grasses. Like a sea of them with—"

  "No one around," Wright interrupted. "I miss it, too." Suddenly he sat up. I asked him what he was thinking. "I was wondering what place here on Earth looks like Ki."

  I had to think. Suddenly all the geography Alan remembered that I had access to—not a great deal, really—came back. "New Zealand, maybe?"

  "Yes," Wright said. "New Zealand's very beautiful. Or New Guinea, the muddy swamps and the dark forests full of primitive people. I've seen pictures of them. Or parts of Australia—the plains, near the desert—that could be where the Off-Sexers live. How big do you think Ki is?"

  I bit my lower lip. "Australia?"

  "Yes," Wright said. "That's sounds reasonable. As an engineer, I'd say that's just about as big as it must be."

  But so much of Ki wasn't habitable, I pointed out.

  "Neither is Australia. Let's say Ki, the habitable part, is just about as big as the East Coast of Australia, where the main cities are. Would you say that?"

  I nodded my head. Yes, he was probably right. Suddenly, I took him in my arms. He settled into me. He felt younger and lighter. Relaxed. "You seem happy," I whispered, kissing his neck.

  "Yes, for the first time in a long time, I feel balanced. Between this Earth and Ki. Now I remember how beautiful it was, and how happy I was—once I finally had you. It's a wonderful feeling."

  "Yes," I said. But I knew it wouldn't last.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Hel-lo!" We found the message on the Smith Foundation's answering machine two days later. It was in the early evening, about six o' clock. We had spent much of the afternoon in the East Wing of the National Gallery and then walked home. Hiding out, you could say, from our work. The man's voice—deep timbre; somewhat gravelly; nervous, but warm—said, "My name is George Marshall, uh, George Woodcock Marshall. I don't want to be confused with any other George Marshall. I'm interested in your work. The idea is just splendid to me. Splendid! I'm afraid I don't have AIDS, and I'm not down and out and all that, but I would like to vol
unteer in some capacity to work with you. . . ."

  “What do you think this means?" I asked Wright.

  He smiled. We hadn't turned on the message machine in twenty-four hours. At first, after we decided not to do any more interviews, we got another wave of sad voices, painful to listen to. Even more painful to erase. But we knew that—for our own purposes—we'd hit a blind spot. None of the men answering our ad in the Blade had been right. I knew that. My own vision told me so.

  "There he is, maybe," I said.

  "Think so?" Wright jotted down George Woodcock Marshall's phone number. It was in a nice section of Alexandria. We could tell that by the exchange. We played back the message a few times, and every time we felt the same warm, hopeful vibration coming from it. The question was, what would we tell him? And how soon, if ever, could we trust him?

  "Mr. Marshall?"—he was there. Thank God he answered the phone, and we weren't just playing telephone tag with his answering machine. "This is Wright McClelland Smith, from the Smith Foundation. Thank you for your message."

  Wright was smiling beautifully. He put his palm over the mouthpiece of the phone: "The man sounds wonderful. Smart—I can tell right away." He took his hand off. "Well, to tell you the truth, we're a very small foundation. We're new to Washington. Actually, we're new to this part of the country. My family's from the West. Far West."

  "You're doing very well," I whispered. Wright's face lit up.

  "I came into some family money, and I knew we were having a crisis, so I decided I had to do something about it. Washington's full of small foundations, I guess you know." He put his hand back over the mouthpiece and told me that George Marshall wanted to come over, perhaps for a drink, that evening.

  I nodded my head. It sounded good to me. Wright told him that evening, at eight-thirty, would be fine. He gave him our address, and gave him as much directions as he could. Marshall said that he was familiar with the neighborhood. I thought that was a good sign in itself.