by Rick R. Reed
Ethan was taken aback, both by the fact that Jan was here and that she had been hired so quickly. He was still in kind of a contemplative mood from the blog he had just written, and having Jan appear in this lonely, empty office made everything seem sort of surreal. Because he didn’t know what to say, Ethan simply offered, “Well, enjoy. And be sure to turn off the lights when you leave.”
As he headed out the door, it seemed to Ethan that he was forgetting something. He checked to see that his messenger bag was affixed to his shoulder and that his apartment keys were in his pocket. Everything seemed in place, so Ethan shut off the annoying thought that there was one more thing he needed to do and headed out.
Outside, the night air was fragrant with the scent of autumn in Chicago. Exhaust fumes mingled with the redolent scent of decaying leaves. Ethan was thinking about how good the chill in the air felt and how the time of year always took him back to his school days. The association was one of new beginnings, though he knew most people thought of spring as the start of new directions.
His thoughts—for once not about HIV and Brian’s perfidy—were rudely interrupted, thrown on the concrete, stomped, and kicked to the curb when he saw the man himself waiting at the corner of Belmont and Broadway. Brian.
And this was no chance encounter. His—oh, what should he call him now? Lover? Ex? What?—former friend stood staring at him, waiting. In his hands was a bouquet of purple irises—Ethan’s favorite—and on his face was a tremulous smile, which made him even handsomer in the warm glow from the streetlamp he stood under.
If Ethan knew he hadn’t been spotted, he would have turned and run in the other direction, ducking back into the building that housed LA Nicholes. But he had been seen, and now Brian was coming toward him.
Ethan stood his ground, his stomach churning. Part of him wanted to run up to the man, who confounded him by continuing to look sexy and adorable in his plain white T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots—and the other part wanted to scream at him “Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Ethan closed his eyes, groping desperately for some spit in his mouth so he could swallow.
“Ethan. Please. I think if we can just talk about this, we can work it out.”
Ethan stared at him, unable to assemble his emotions and thoughts in a coherent enough fashion to mutter a few words that would make any sense. So he stayed mute and let Brian continue.
“We’ve always been able to talk things out, get through them, and go on. Look where it’s gotten us. We had—still have, I hope—something good, something solid, something worth hanging on to. Don’t you think?”
Ethan still couldn’t speak. Hornets of rage were buzzing inside his brain. Farther south, a pall had been cast over his heart, which felt empty, yearning, and betrayed. And still farther south, his stomach did weird flip-flops, as if auditioning for the next Chicago performance of Cirque du Soleil.
Ethan couldn’t speak, but he could act. In gestures entirely unlike him, he painted a broad smile across his features. He noticed how the smile immediately relaxed Brian. The tense set of his shoulders softened. He returned the smile with his own lopsided and unbearably cute grin.
Brian grinned even more broadly when Ethan took the flowers from him. Ethan kept smiling and held the eye contact as he flung the flowers to the ground.
And then he walked away.
He could feel Brian’s gaze on him, but he would not look back. Tears gathered in the corners of Ethan’s eyes, but like the blog, his actions had made him feel a little better—and, paradoxically, a lot worse… go figure.
He thought Brian would call after him. But by the time he made it to the corner, Ethan heard nothing more than the honking of a car horn at a distracted driver and the roar of a bus passing by.
He didn’t know whether he was relieved or disappointed.
ETHAN SPENT the next day much as he had the last—immersed in work. He had always wondered how people “threw” themselves into their work and had always had no small amount of disdain for such people, thinking they needed to get a life.
Now he was one of them, and he understood.
And at the day’s close, he was ready to share with his blog another of his adventures in Poz Land. Last night, after the encounter with Brian, he had stopped at Walgreens and picked up the first of his prescriptions.
When the pharmacist told him the cost was one hundred dollars for the pair, Ethan at first thought they must not have applied his insurance to the prescriptions. But the pharmacist explained that fifty dollars each was only his co-pay. “Yup, if you were paying for this on your own, you’d be shelling out over thirteen hundred.”
Ethan gulped. “Dollars?”
“Yes. Credit, check, or cash?”
“Credit.”
Ethan thought he had better make sure to hang on to his job.
Waiting again until the end of the day, when most of the staff had gone home and the office was quiet, Ethan again returned to the scene of the crime—his Off to See the Wizard of Poz blog.
When I got the news that I was HIV positive, I had a lot of thoughts scurrying around in my brain, competing for attention, not the least of which were questions like How long do I have? Should I begin slutting around the baths now that it no longer matters about getting infected? Will I be unable to tolerate the drugs that could save my life?
The least of the questions I had was How will this affect my finances? I had no idea the medicines to keep me alive were going to be so expensive! I just picked up my meds last night, and the pharmacist (think Jet Li in a lab coat) informed me that, together, they cost about thirteen hundred bucks! For one month!
Once upon a time, and especially on bad days at work, I had thought of just chucking it all and going freelance. I was good at what I did (promoting, marketing, and writing) and had lots of solid contacts that I could most likely persuade to give me work, so the idea was one that had some validity.
But I can’t think that way no more, boys and girls. This young lady has to kiss the corporate ass… not only for her salary, but for the now precious perk that comes with her job: health insurance. Thank the sweet baby Jesus, Blue Cross pays most of the costs for my meds.
Now, if only they will work. Now, if only I will not have any of the ten thousand possible side effects listed on the prescription inserts….
And by the way, slutting around at the baths is out. My doc informed me I could get reinfected with a different strain and that medicines that worked before could stop. “Use a condom… every time,” he said, as if he’d recited the line a million times before (and probably had).
Welcome to the brave new world of Poz.
Cheery, Ethan thought as he hit the Publish button. He breathed in a contented breath in spite of his situation. This blog idea really wasn’t so bad. It was certainly cheaper than a therapist, and Ethan felt it was having much the same effect.
He hoisted his messenger bag over his shoulder and started to head out, when he paused and slapped himself in the forehead. He did not cry “I could’ve had a V8!” Instead he hurried over to his computer, logged off, and shut the machine down for the night.
Had he forgotten to do it the night before? He couldn’t remember.
AT HOME, Ethan felt like he had been transported back in time, as if the prior six months with Brian had never happened. Normally when he got home, one of the first things he would do—after peeing—would be to pick up the phone and call Brian to see what the plans were for dinner that night. Should they go out? Stay in? My place or yours? Do you want to cook, or should I? Or should we just order in lo mein and egg rolls from Li Wen? Or how about we just forgo dinner completely and hit the sheets?
But it was as if those happy times had been a blip in his existence, almost like something that had never happened, and now he was back to what he was used to—being alone. Perhaps, he thought, living solo was his natural, default state and he should just accept it. Hadn’t his one grasp at love ended in disaster? If he was more o
f a sap, he would dig through the old LPs in his basement storage room, find his turntable while he was down there, and sob while “Alone Again (Naturally)” by Gilbert O’Sullivan played. The long night stretched before him, empty. Should he try to cook something? Dispirited, he looked through the refrigerator, empty save for a forlorn package of Oscar Mayer turkey wieners probably well past their sell-by date and a carton of Lactaid skim, also probably older than it would like to admit.
He slammed the refrigerator door shut, thinking Aren’t we all? He knew there were Lean Cuisines in the freezer, but suddenly the prospect of zapping a Fiesta Grilled Chicken in the microwave seemed like too much work.
Ethan went over to the cupboard that housed what he modestly called his bar and pulled out an ancient bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “At least these don’t go bad, not that I know of, anyway.” He regarded the black label and the amber liquid inside, thinking its warmth would fill him up enough and send him off to sleep. He could just sleep and sleep and sleep. Worry about tomorrow, tomorrow. He would eat then.
As he was splashing a finger or two of Jack into a juice glass, his cell phone chirped. He hurried, out of old habit, to snatch it from his jacket pocket. He glanced down at the Caller ID on the clamshell’s front and saw that it was, indeed, Brian.
Ethan shook his head and flipped open the phone, amazed that he could speak over his suddenly thundering heart.
“What?” he said impatiently into the phone.
Brian said nothing for a moment. “Ethan. Please. Can I just talk to you? Can I come over?”
“No. I’m tired, and I don’t feel good.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Can we just talk for a few minutes?”
Ethan sat on his futon and took a gulp of the whiskey. He made a face as its burning heat invaded his mouth and throat.
“What do you have to say, Brian?”
“First of all, that I love you, honey. Don’t you know that?” Brian’s voice was so plaintive and sincere that Ethan forgot for a moment that it was just such sweet talk that had him taking three extra pills every morning with his vitamin.
“I’m not sure I do, Brian.”
“How can you say that?”
“I can say it because….” Ethan bit his lip. He might as well just come out with it. “I can say it because I really don’t see how it could have been anyone else who infected me. And the thought of that makes me sick, Brian. It really does.” Ethan heard his voice catch. Man up! he thought to himself. Do not let him hear you cry. “I just don’t know what there is to talk about.”
Brian blew out a sigh; he sounded exasperated. “How about this? How about that you’re jumping to conclusions? How about the fact that you’re ignoring the very real feelings I have for you? How about six of the happiest months of my life… and what I thought were six of your happiest too? How about those as talking points?”
Ethan could tell from the slight tremor in Brian’s voice that he was not the only one on the verge of tears. This would be so much easier if the man was just an asshole. Ethan took another sip of bourbon, and this one went down easier. He wondered if he shouldn’t be mixing his new meds with alcohol. “I have to go now, Brian.”
“What?”
“I said I need to go. I can’t talk to you right now.”
“Well then, when? When can you talk to me?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know when, or if, that time will come.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” Brian’s voice went up at the end of the question, his pain apparent. “Over this?”
“This? You say that like it’s something small. I don’t know.” Ethan drew in a big breath, let it out. “Yes. I’m breaking up with you. Goodbye.”
He flipped the clamshell shut and switched off the phone. Quickly, he walked to the other side of the apartment and unplugged the cordless from the wall jack.
He sat back down and sipped his drink, poured another. Then he took off his clothes and climbed into bed. He thought it was very poetic and somehow pathetic that there were tears on his pillow.
THE NEXT day, Ethan went through the routine of work like an automaton. He had been doing his job as a publicist for so long, he discovered that he really didn’t need to think much in order to answer emails, handle phone calls, and write press releases, which were often nothing more, he had to admit, than boilerplate with names, dates, titles, and locations changed. He found he could even attend a staff meeting, smile, say all the appropriate things, and never once engage his mind. It made him wonder how many of his coworkers were doing the exact same thing.
He couldn’t engage his mind because the very brief phone call with Brian the night before kept replaying in his head throughout the day. The questions kept coming, rapid-fire, as if his brain was suddenly set up to formulate pithy questions for which he had no answers. He also discovered a snippy, unkind voice in the background of his mind. Before all this had happened, he didn’t know this snippy voice very well, with its sarcasm and meanness, but there it was, and maybe it had been waiting all along in the wings for just the right convergence of bad luck and circumstance to emerge. The mean Ethan did have answers to his questions and seemed only too happy to give them.
Had he done the right thing by abruptly ending what he had considered a good, solid relationship so suddenly and over the phone?
Yes, stupid, you did the right thing. Why would you even ask that? The man betrayed you and, worse, probably had a lifelong bad influence on your health. Did the right thing? God! I wonder where the brains God gave you are hiding.
Should he have at least given Brian a face-to-face audience?
Oh, that’s rich! Give him yet another chance to whisper sweet nothings in your ear and seduce you with a lot of crap, none of which, I might add, is even true.
Was he impulsively throwing away something that could have been worked out?
Sweetheart, you are nothing but an eternal optimist if that’s what you think. Honey, people don’t change. Kick this one to the curb; he’s not the only fish in the sea. And who needs a man anyway? How about that cat idea? Maybe a Maine coon? At least it won’t lie to you!
How soon would Brian begin seeing other people?
You know the answer to that. He’s most likely online right now, trolling for dick. Men! They’re all the same!
Had he already?
You know the answer to that too, sugarplum. And that already goes way back, up to and including when you met him.
“Oh, shut up,” Ethan said aloud, and then hoped no one was listening over the partition. Would this diagnosis and breakup reduce him to arguing with voices in his head? Was he on a fast track to an asylum… or worse, homelessness, where he could mutter to himself curled up near a dumpster, a bottle of fortified wine clutched in his grimy hand?
He reminded himself he did have a new outlet for his thoughts—his blog. He could turn to it and pour out all his troubles, unconcerned about judgment or if he sounded crazy.
He knew he should keep this blog writing at home, but right now, he felt very much compelled to write.
He brought up Internet Explorer and was about to click the bookmark for his blog when he paused. The “mean Ethan” snickered and whispered slyly, “Before you do that, why don’t you just do a quick check and see what Brian’s up to? Even if he’s not online, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he’s posted a few profiles here and there. After all, isn’t that how he snagged you?”
Mean Ethan had a point. And it was the kind of point that dug into a person, refusing to be ignored. There was a sensible Ethan saying he should not, not, not be going on such sites like wingpeople.com—where he had met Brian—or Manhunt—where he hoped Brian was not hanging out—or even gaydar.com—where there were zillions of men just waiting to snatch up a prize like Brian, all of them younger and prettier than Ethan. But that point, that irritation, that quest for knowledge, once noticed, would not go away and let him be.
Ethan logged onto wingpeople.com with shaking fing
ers. The first thing he noticed was that the site had new and spiffier graphics. It looked more streamlined and modern. But otherwise things were the same—that virtual air of desperation hanging around the site with its promise of over 500,000 men online right now.
He told himself he should stop at once, but he knew even as he was thinking it that there was no turning back. He did the requisite clicks to allow him onto the site as a visitor—he had long ago abandoned his account; six months ago, to be precise—and then proceeded to search, entering the required fields for city and state and leaving a broad window for things like age, in case Brian was making himself younger or lighter than he actually was. Hey, if someone lies about one thing, he’ll lie about another. It’s a slippery slope.
After paging through scores of profiles and their accompanying thumbnail portraits—although “portrait” may have been too grand a term for a fat ass with the cheeks pulled apart or a ten-inch dick dribbling precum—he saw no one that even came close to resembling Brian.
He was relieved. But he was also shocked by a term he had never paid much attention to, but which now appeared over and over: “Neg. UB2.” It was easy enough to translate the term into English for the non-internet savvy—“Negative. You be too.” Ethan was surprised and dismayed by how many times the term popped up. He supposed it had been there before, when he had been a full-fledged member of the site, but not having such a personal connection to the affront, he had most likely not taken much note of it.
Now the term seemed callous, cruel, and exclusionary. Neg. UB2. How could they be so sure they were neg? And even better, how could they be so sure the UB2s actually were what they claimed? Even if a UB2 claimed to B, maybe he was in a window period or simply wasn’t aware of a new status mutating in his body as he set up a hookup with another online neg person.
Despite the inanity of the term, Ethan found it hurt. He was no longer neg, and he felt suddenly left behind, once again, by a world of healthy people for whom he was not good enough.