Ben’s workouts started getting more serious. He would stop by my house after working out, and he could barely move. His muscles ached. He was working out six days a week. They had hired a personal trainer to get them beefed up. I worried about his health, but he insisted he never felt better.
I noticed one day he started carrying a beeper. I sarcastically asked if it was part of his pimpish ways. He brushed me off. I wondered what a guy on disability would want with a beeper. I figured Ben wanted to feel important. A little while after that he got a cellular phone. That was really strange. He now had both a beeper and a cellular.
“Tell me the truth,” I ask. “Are you Corey’s pimp? Why the fuck are you carrying a cellular?”
“I’m not anybody’s pimp.”
“Then why are you carrying a beeper?” I insist.
“What if someone wanted to get ahold of me right away? I was at the Castro the other day going in to see The Hunger and I got beeped. This queen was at the pay phone and he wouldn’t stop talking, so I couldn’t use it to call whoever paged me. I decided to get a cellular.”
“What’s so important? Why are you being beeped?”
He sheepishly asked me if I had the current issue of the B.A.R. I gave it to him. He opened it to the escorts section. He showed me an ad with a guy’s smooth torso. The headline said Preppy Top. I could not figure out what was going on. I looked at Ben and he was beaming—radiant was more like it, proud as a peacock.
“What the fuck?” I say.
“That’s my beeper number you see,” he says boastfully. He is about to burst at the seams, unable to stop smiling.
“Are you telling me you’re the Preppy Top?” I ask.
“Yep!”
“People pay you for sex?”
“Yep.” He beams.
“Oh, Jesus. You’re a fucking whore.”
“And I get paid for it too,” he coos.
…
Viruses are any of various simple submicroscopic parasites of plants, animals, and bacteria that often cause disease and that consist essentially of a core of RNA or DNA surrounded by a protein coat. Unable to replicate without a host cell, viruses are typically not considered living organisms.
Not a living organism? Man, in his arrogance, decides this planet’s most tenacious biotype is not a living organism.
Man is nothing more than giant genitalia for viruses.
…
Mohammad went to Dallas to attend the opening reception of his exhibit at the Fort Worth Museum of Modern Art. He was to stay there for only a couple of days. One of the trustees put him up at a luxurious apartment of another trustee who was out of town. The woman had left detailed notes of what he could and could not do in the apartment. He was reading the notes when he decided to make himself a strong drink. He opened the icebox to get some ice when he saw another note strategically placed inside. It said: No national specialties with odors hard to get rid of.
He took his bag and left for the airport.
…
An hour later. Arjuna and his charioteer, Krsna, on the battlefield. They are now joined by Eleanor Roosevelt, Krishnamurti, Julio Cortázar, and Tom Cruise, who looks a little lost.
ARJUNA:Can you give me a little hint? I am about to embark on the mother of all battles and you still run peripatetic dialectics by me. Could you just tell me what the purpose of life is all about?
KRSNA:What do you think I have been doing?
ARJUNA:Well, I don’ t get it.
ELEANOR:The purpose of life is to live it.
ARJUNA:Oh Eleanor, can you lower your voice an octave when you speak? It is so damn irritating.
KRSNA:High voice or not, the lesbian is right.
ARJUNA:Are you suggesting life has no purpose? No unity, nothing to pull all these illogical vignettes into a coherent collage? If that is the case, then how do biographers do what they do? If there is no unity, then how do the biographies of Ava Gardner or Eva Gabor make sense?
JULIO:But do we have to wait till someone dies before we find his life’s unity, the sum of all the actions that define a life? The problem consists in grasping that unity without becoming a hero, without becoming a saint, or a criminal, or a boxing champ, or a statesman, or a shepherd; to grasp unity in the midst of diversity, so that that unity might be the vortex of a whirlwind.
KRSNA:Why is it you humans constantly search for a deeper meaning?
JULIO:To sell books.
KRSNA:What if I told you that life has no unity? It is a series of nonlinear vignettes leading nowhere, a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. It makes no sense, enjoy it.
KRISHNAMURTI:I had a vision once. It is the same vision you had when the mist turned into stormy waters in the hills of Lebanon. I was standing watching a mother washing her infant in the Ganges. She looked angelic as she washed her naked son. When she was done, she bit his head off.
JULIO:Ah. You are suggesting that life is the struggle between feelings and the intellect.
KRISHNAMURTI:Not at all, I am suggesting that the purpose of life is to understand it.
ARJUNA:Explain it to me then. You are closer to God. You are a guru. What is the purpose of life?
KRISHNAMURTI:I am not a guru. I am not a guru.
KRSNA:My dear fellow, you have to realize that when you abnegated your guruship, when you gave it all up, you became the greatest guru of them all.
TOM:I am not a homosexual. I am not a homosexual.
ELEANOR:Oh, shut up!
ARJUNA:I wish someone could explain the purpose of life to me.
KRSNA:There is none. Go out and kill your cousins.
ELEANOR:Live your life.
KRISHNAMURTI:And stay away from books by David Leavitt or Deepak Chopra.
JULIO:Here, here.
…
Solitude is the playfield of Satan. I was having nightmares at night and panic attacks during the day. The various news reports about the mysterious disease striking gay men were having an unsettling effect on me.
I always thought if I became a famous artist, I would be less lonely. It proved to be the complete opposite. The response to my first show at Heller was surprisingly sensational. At twenty-one, I was called the voice of a new generation. The review in the San Francisco Chronicle had the headline, Great Debut for Gay Artist. I could not sleep that night. I was terror-stricken. I called home, but the maid relayed a message from my father saying I was never to call back. How they had heard so quickly, I was never to find out.
I was alone. A piece of my heart was forcibly taken out. Eradicated. Expurgated. Obliterated. Emasculated.
I called Scott and asked him to move in. He packed his belongings and moved out of his apartment in less than twenty-four hours. We became even more inseparable. We became one word, Mohammad and Scott, Scott and Mohammad. One person. One life. One love.
…
In America, I fit, but I do not belong.
In Lebanon, I belong, but I do not fit.
…
It is Thanksgiving. The year is 1996. James sits alone. The first year he is completely alone. In 1982 he decided not to go back home for Thanksgiving. A group of friends formed the We Are Family group. There were seven of them that year. They came over for a Thanksgiving dinner at his house. When dinner was over, they played Sister Sledge’s disco hit full blast. They played that song at every Thanksgiving since. Through the years the group got bigger with lovers joining in. Through the years the group got smaller with friends dying. This was supposed to be the fifteenth Thanksgiving. Not a single member of the group, not one person who had had Thanksgiving dinner at his house is left alive. Not a single member of the group ever reached his fortieth birthday.
James is thirty-nine. James sits alone.
…
Of all the n
icknames I have been called, Mo is the one name I completely abhorred.
…
For your perusing pleasure, I submit, translated and unedited, a brief editorial from the Swiss Tages-Anzeiger newspaper:
QUOTE
Why Beirut and not Damascus?
Shimon Peres attacks Lebanon and bombs Beirut claiming he is aiming at Hizballah bases. He hopes, thereby, to brighten his image and strengthen his position in view of the upcoming elections. All his victims will leave cold an Assad who does not himself hesitate to sacrifice anyone to keep his power. Why didn’t the Prime Minister of Israel attack Damascus or Teheran directly? Lebanon is an easy target: it cannot respond. The Nobel Peace Prize winner Peres has innocent defenseless civilians killed. He pursues a political goal by hitting people who are completely powerless in this entire affair. When Assad, when the Iranians, when the Islamic groups, when the Palestinians, act with the same methods, we call this terrorism.
UNQUOTE
Well, guess who won the election after all?
…
Tim wanted to drive. He had been cooped up in his studio apartment for two weeks. He picked Kurt up at his flat.
“You’re looking good,” Kurt said.
“Thanks. I feel better.”
“So what are we going to see?” Kurt asked.
“I wanted to see Dead Man Walking, but I don’t think I’m up for a serious movie. We’re going to see Babe.”
“That’s a good idea. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again. We don’t have to watch the whole thing, okay? If you get tired we can leave.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You look like you put on some more weight since last week.”
“Three pounds. The Megace is really working. I’m eating normally again.”
“That’s great.”
“I probably have to stop taking it soon.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to gain too much weight.”
“Jesus. You’re not serious?”
“Look, just because you don’t care about your weight, doesn’t mean I don’t have to.”
“Reality check! Reality check! Let’s see. You have no T-cells. You’ve lost over twenty pounds in the last three months. But now you’re worried about being fat?”
“You’re fucking grumpy tonight. Gee, Tim, we haven’t gone out to a movie in a while. Let’s do that so I can insult you tonight, Tim. What’s the matter, Tim? Can’t I—”
“If you stop taking Megace, I will kill you myself.”
“Okay. Okay, Mr. Grumpy.”
“I swear you’re crazy.”
“And you’re fat.”
…
My sister is massaging my feet. It feels really good. They swell quite a bit these days.
“Are you going to dry my feet with your hair?” I ask.
“Probably not, but I am sure Maria would love to,” she replies. I smile.
“He hasn’t completely lost his sense of humor, I see.” She smiles.
…
I am back in Beirut with my cousin. It is 1974, but we are the same age we are now. We decide to go see our families. I worry whether I will be able to see myself, meet myself when I was fourteen. The science fiction writers are wrong. It is possible to go back in time and meet yourself. Our family does not recognize us, but they do welcome us into the fold. My cousin is happy. This is where he wants to be. He no longer has any responsibilities. He can drink and be merry. He even gives his fourteen-year-old self a sip of his beer.
I meet myself. I am proud of my younger self. I am mature, studious, and precocious. I realize I have a couple of options. I can stay in Beirut and teach my fourteen-year-old self everything I know. I can guide myself. On the other hand, I could go to San Francisco and try to stop the AIDS epidemic. Probably nobody will believe me, but I can try. My cousin, already tipsy and having a grand old time, asks me to stay. My parents, good people that they are, tell me I am welcome to stay in their house. I decide to go to San Francisco and take myself with me. I can teach myself to be human in San Francisco. It would be an educational experience.
…
If we are suffering illness, poverty, or misfortune, we think we shall be satisfied on the day it ceases. But there too, we know it is false; so soon as one has got used to not suffering one wants something else.
Simone Weil told me that. Simone, darling, get yourself some Prozac. Enough is enough. That’s what I said to her. Do you realize if antidepressants were available fifty years ago, the existentialists could have been happy? We would have been spared reading so many dull books.
…
March 26th, 1994
Dear Diary,
My daughter surprised me tonight. She had a costume party to go to and dressed up as a Pink Panther, a member of the militia, not the cartoon character. Some years ago, one of the myriad of militias which sprang up in Beirut decided to differentiate itself by wearing a unique uniform. I have no idea who their fashion coordinator was. The uniform was the regular camouflage pattern except the colors were of the bright pink variety, topping it off with a pink beret. It would have been hilarious if the militia was not one of the more violent ones. We started calling them the Pink Panthers even though they preferred Die Rosenkavaliers.
Whoever decided on those uniforms was obviously not a woman. It isn’t simply the idea that pink is not a color one associates with terror. Any woman would tell you pink fades really fast when washed. I doubt the militiamen had ever heard of a warm wash, cold rinse cycle. Within a month, the uniforms looked like regular camouflage uniforms washed with a red shirt which bled, from Pepto-Bismol to mud in less than two washing cycles.
My daughter said she paid one dollar for the whole uniform, the pants, jacket, and beret, at a discount store. One dollar. That’s all that is left of that militia. They came into our world suddenly, killed tons of people, and disappeared just as suddenly as they appeared. I still have no idea who they were, what party they belonged to, or what they were fighting for. It’s probably better that way.
…
I wake to the most beautiful music in the world. I hear her voice softly singing in the dark. It is always dark now. The violin is playing. Is it two violins? I know this music. I know I know this music. I can’t place it. I can’t think straight anymore.
That voice is heavenly. I would stay alive for that voice. I would live for that lovely voice. It is divine. I know this music. I can’t understand why my mind is disappearing. I love this music.
The violin repeats the melody. The second violin repeats after the first. Or is it a viola? It must be Bach. So many times He has saved me.
I remember the short film RSVP. A man who died of AIDS leaves a request at a classical radio station. His friends and parents listen to the song and cry. I can’t remember the song. Was it Berlioz? I do remember it was Jessye Norman singing. It was a lovely song, but not divine. This is divine. It must be Bach.
It must be Bach.
“James?” I ask.
“I’m here,” James replies softly. He takes my hand.
“Who is singing?”
“Kathleen Battle. It’s from The Bach Album with Itzhak Perlman. You used to have it on all the time while painting.”
“Bete Aber Auch Dabei.”
“I am sorry, Mo. I didn’t understand that.”
“My German is awful. That was the name of the song which just finished. Please play it again.”
“Sure thing.”
“Do you know what she is singing?” I ask.
“It’s a mass of some sort.”
“It’s a prayer:
‘Yet pray, even while
in the midst of keeping watch!
In thy great guilt
beg the Judge for patience,
and He shall free thee from
sin
and make thee cleansed.’ “
The violins come back again.
I went to a couple of Catholic churches when I found out I was positive. I wanted confession. The truth was I wanted absolution. I talked to a priest and asked him what the procedure was for confessing. He asked if I was a Catholic. I told him I was a Muslim. He looked at me funny. He said I could not get absolution if I were a Muslim.
The voice comes back again. It is divine. She is talking directly to God.
“James?”
“I’m here,” James replies softly. He takes my hand.
“I want to die.”
“Okay.”
…
Ox sat. I bet you don’t know what ox sat is.
Oxygen saturation. That’s what it is. There is a new language we use these days. I mean, who knew what a T cell was ten years ago? Now it’s in common use. Ten years from now, when everybody is having trouble breathing from PCP or CMV in their lungs, ox sat will be in common use too.
I bet you don’t know what a picc line is.
…
July 4th, 1967
Dear Diary,
This is without a doubt the worst day of my life. It looks like we have to go back to Beirut. My husband can’t take it here in Washington anymore. The head of the department at Georgetown insulted him. He called him a camel jockey. I would assume an educated man would know there are no camels in Lebanon. The worst thing was our neighbor called me names today. Celebrating their independence by insulting the foreigner. They have such bad manners over here.
I guess it is a good thing we are leaving. They fight a war over there, but it brings out the bad sides of people over here. I still can’t believe Walter Cronkite. Jerusalem is liberated. “Jerusalem is liberated,” he kept repeating. It was as if he or his family were leading the way. Liberated from whom? Arabs have lived in Jerusalem for as long as Jerusalem existed. Liberated? They keep treating us as if we are barbarians. Jews or Christians, these Europeans come occupy our lands and then they have the gall to say they are liberating Jerusalem.
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