by Craig Moody
“The bed is wet,” I told him, avoiding his eyes in the weight of my shame.
“I know, babe. I already removed the
sheets.”
I watched as Gauge quickly dressed for work after he had carefully tucked me into the freshly-made bed. He kept a stockade of clean bedsheets in the room due to the consistency of my accidents. He would never scoff or scold me, he would simply clean the mess and move on, always tender and caring to avoid hurting my feelings by embarrassing me or making me feel guilty or responsible.
“I’ll bring you some soup around lunch,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Please try and drink the shake.”
I looked over at the blended mixture on the nightstand beside me. My stomach grumbled its disapproval the moment I laid eyes on it.
“I’ll try,” I promised, knowing I would only sip the drink before succumbing to more fits of diarrhea. It wouldn’t be long before I would need another hospital visit to replenish all that continued to be wasted, both from the disease and my lack of eating. Some days, I wouldn’t eat at all, only sipping a few mouthfuls of water to avoid complete dehydration.
I drifted off to sleep not long after Gauge left the room, visions of the nearby Pacific waves crashing over the shores of my dreams.
***
“How are you feeling today, Mr. Thomas?” a doctor I had never seen before asked me. “I hear we need to get some food into you.”
I looked at Gauge, who was silently unpacking the various items he had shoved into the knapsack before we raced out of the motel room. I had begun vomiting blood, covering the entire bedspread with a putrid bile that stung my eyes and clogged my throat. It was nearly an hour before Gauge discovered me and loaded us onto the Indian and barreled to the hospital.
“Mr. Paulson,” the doctor said to Gauge, fidgeting with one of the tubes in my wrists. “May I have a word with you in the hallway?”
Gauge looked at him suspiciously, nodding his head in agreement after a moment of silent contemplation.
I didn’t say a word as I watched the two men disappear into the hallway. Several seconds passed before I heard Gauge yelling in the small distance.
“What the fuck do you mean we can’t stay?” I heard him shout. “He will starve to death if we leave!”
There were several more minutes of silence. Finally, after what felt like a short lifetime, Gauge reappeared in the doorway, his head hung as he made his way back to the knapsack. I watched as he began collecting what he had just unloaded, shoving it back into the bag.
“What’s the matter?” I asked, summoning every bit of shallow breath inside my lungs to carry my voice.
“We have to go,” Gauge replied flatly, keeping his attention on the pack.
“What do you mean?” I croaked, my words labored and breathless. “I can’t go home yet. I’m too sick.”
“They need the room for someone with insurance,” he responded, turning to face me, his eyes filled with tears of frustration. “They said they will rehydrate and feed you, but once stabilized, we have to go.”
I lowered my head in shameful understanding. One of the more talkative orderlies had once told me that due to the vast numbers of new patients coming into the ward each day, the hospital was forced to prioritize by severity, often dumping patients who were deemed well enough, relatively speaking, for home care, or those who lacked any form of health insurance. With the sudden increase in AIDS cases, many county hospitals were forced to take in far more patients than they could properly care for, often exhausting an already limited federal funding, and resorting to quietly yet hastily dumping helpless AIDS patients back out onto the streets.
I chose not to exhaust my fledgling reserves of energy in continuing to pursue information.
Instead, I lay back deeper into the pillow and allowed the flowing nutrients to seep quietly into my system. Already, the presence of the liquid began to make me feel a bit better. It was awful how a tasteless substance was now something I favored in place of any traditional food. I long ago lost my cravings and appetite, resorting to eating mashed and liquid nourishment in order to continue living. I no longer remembered what a hot pizza tasted like as it pressed upon your tongue during that first bite, or the sweet softness of ice cream as it slid down your throat with its creamy goodness. I could barely taste the bits of food I did eat, my taste buds exhausted by the endless parade of medications and acidic burn of stomach fluids as they coated over my tongue each time I vomited.
There were no joys or pleasures in my living. I simply existed. Each day, another spin of hours zipped by on the clock as I faded in and out of consciousness. Only my moments with Gauge, which usually consisted of baths and feedings, provided me some form of willpower. Apart from Gauge, I felt I had nothing to live for, my interest and care for life beginning to dull and dissipate with each passing day.
“Here,” the same doctor announced as he reentered the room. “I wrote down the number to the private hospice I told you about.”
Gauge turned around to face the man, begrudgingly taking the paper from his hand.
“It’s private, so they will require some money up front, but at least they will have more availability to care for Dustin.”
I lifted my eyes toward the ceiling as I felt both men move their gaze over me.
“Keep him comfortable, Mr. Paulson,” I heard the doctor say.
There was a long silence before I heard another sound. Finally, Gauge appeared beside me.
“I need to go back to the motel for a bit,” he said softly, brushing his hand over my sweat- covered forehead. “I’ll be back in a few hours. By then you should be done with the fluids and we can go.”
Several questions clamored into my brain, but I was too tired to ask them. I merely nodded and closed my eyes, feeling his lips as they touched mine.
I slipped into unconsciousness as Gauge left the room.
***
The house smelled of patchouli oil and sage. The room I was in was small and decorated like a doll house. All the furniture and fixtures were antique, meticulously matched and styled to perfection. It felt as though I had stepped into some classic home décor catalog or storybook description of the home of a wise and gentle grandmother.
It took me three days to get the truth from Gauge on how he was able to pay for me to stay here. He had sold the Indian. After he left me at the ward that day, he telephoned Officer Jenkins and made him an offer. Thrilled, Officer Jenkins accepted, wired Gauge the money, and promised to travel to LA in a month to pick it up.
I threw a fit. I couldn’t believe Gauge would ever consider selling the Indian, despite the circumstances. The bike meant the world to him, he put so much time and energy into restoring it.
He wouldn’t hear of my protests, though. He wanted me in this private facility, so there was no questioning or discussing the details and methods of how he was making that happen.
Gauge was allowed to stay in the room with me. He slept on a peach-colored chaise lounge, a handstitched quilt bundled over him like the fur of a hibernating animal.
The house belonged to an older lesbian couple, Barb and June. Both retired nurses, they operated a successful bed and breakfast, the house an heirloom in June’s family, temporarily closing it to host a private hospice. Originally, they operated the cause by way of their personal savings and retirement funds, but due to the increase in patients, they were forced to start asking a fee in order to continue providing the service. Most of the patients were those without health insurance, or those abandoned by family or dumped by the local hospitals. June and Barb tended to the day-to-day tasks while one of their friends, a retired doctor, provided the necessary medical authority.
Unlike the AIDS ward, the home was welcoming and comfortable, the hovering shadow of death nonexistent, though nearby.
What amazed me most was the personal care both women provided. Unlike the nurses and orderlies of the ward, the women were not afraid to touch or even show affection to their patients. Ba
rb would often stroke my hair whenever she tended to me, and June would never leave the room without kissing my cheek.
They both adored Gauge and delighted in his willingness to assist them around the house. They wouldn’t allow him to interact much with the other patients, but they certainly had no issue providing a list of household chores and tasks for him to complete each day. Gauge reveled in his work. I think he was looking for a way to show his gratitude toward the ladies, despite the money he had given them on the first day. I didn’t ask how much he sold the Indian for. I really didn’t want to know. The fact that he sold it broke my heart, and I was determined to arrange that he get it back.
Someday soon, when Gauge wasn’t nearby, I planned to call Officer Jenkins myself to further explain the situation, if Gauge hadn’t already. I couldn’t rest knowing the Indian would soon depart from us, its presence and character like that of a beloved friend or family member. I made it my silent prayer and mission to somehow get it back before Officer Jenkins arrived to retrieve it.
“Well, good morning, handsome,” Barb said in a singsong voice as she quietly entered the room. “Are we ready for some breakfast?”
I smiled, attempting to lift myself in the bed, but was gently scolded.
“No, no,” she commanded. “Wait for me to help you.”
I closed my eyes as the robust woman carefully boosted me into a sitting position. Gauge stirred at the commotion, lifting his head off the lounge like a confused puppy.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Handyman,” Barb teased. “I left a plate for you in the kitchen. French toast and eggs. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the stove.”
I looked down at the tray she brought in.
Several fruit slices and a bowl of cereal were set in perfect arrangement. For whatever reason, I was now able to hold down most everything I ate and drank. Something about Barb’s home cooking agreed with my system, and I no longer feared immediate expulsion the moment a morsel ventured beyond my lips.
Gauge enjoyed the meals as well. In the week we had been here, I could already see a slight change in his appearance. The thin wariness that had recently cloaked over him was beginning to chip away like dried paint, revealing a fresh glow that even included his long-lost crooked smile.
With Barb and June in the picture, Gauge appeared to pause and relax a bit, the constant fear and worry I saw etching over his face seeming to slow and softly fade.
“Thanks, Barb,” Gauge replied, tossing aside the quilt, exposing his briefs.
“Well, hey now. No need to show me all that. I haven’t had the need for one of those in over thirty-five years.”
She laughed to herself, the joyful sound filling the space of the small room like warm sunshine discovering the hidden floor of a forest.
Both Gauge and I smiled in response.
Barb’s general chit-chat lasted about ten minutes before she exited the room to tend to her next patient. Gauge appeared from the narrow bathroom door, his fitted jeans gripped over his skin as if painted on. His white work shirt was tucked in, the sleeves rolled high on his arms, exposing the colorful tattoos that decorated his flesh-like personalized paintings. I smiled to myself, realizing how much he resembled the very first time I ever saw him, sweat-covered and beautiful as he dutifully mowed Aunt Mert’s lawn. It seemed so long ago now, the sands of time feeling as though they doubled their falling pace with the blackened and foul grip of disease. Each day blended into the next, every sunrise revealing new bumps, bruises, and blisters on my skin, every sunset initiating a terrible night cough that spun inside my lungs like an undying dust devil aggravating the arid desert floor.
“Eat, babe,” he directed, moving to the side of the bed for a kiss.
“I will,” I promised, allowing the smell of the food to stimulate my limited appetite. Often times, it would take me more than an hour just to finish off less than half of one of the meals Barb provided. I didn’t mind it; I had no other place to be, and as long as the food remained in my belly, I didn’t care how long it took to get it in there.
I was nearly through with the cereal when June entered the room. Unlike Barb, June was tiny and petite, standing no taller than five foot, her silver hair cut short, her daily attire simple yet colorful. June didn’t speak nearly as much as Barb, but when she did, it was best to listen, as the pearls of wisdom that often fell from her mouth were worth more than their weight in precious silver.
“You wanted to see me, hon?” she whispered from the doorway. “Barb told me you had asked for me to come up this morning after Gauge had gone downstairs.”
I nodded.
“What is it, love?” the tiny woman asked, pulling a chair up to the bedside.
“I need you to have Dr. Davis get me sleeping pills,” I answered in my hoarse and raspy whisper. “A lot of them.”
June stared at me quietly, her lips fidgeting as she processed my request.
“Dustin, love,” she began, “I think we need to talk about—”
“I have already thought about everything,” I interrupted, lifting my broken voice to an audible volume. “This is something important to me. I want to do this.”
The woman only stared, her eyes glittered with tears in the soft morning light.
“Have you spoken to Gauge about this?” “I have,” I continued, allowing my eyes to drift toward the window. “He won’t hear of it. He refuses to even talk about it.”
“That should mean something to you, Dustin,” she said softly as she closed her fragile hands over mine.
“He is not the one dying,” I responded immediately, my frustration and impatience fueling the faint power of my voice. “I don’t want to end up like the others. I saw so many go at the ward. I don’t want to end up like that.”
June closed her eyes and squeezed my hands tighter. It was several long minutes before she spoke again.
“Very well,” she answered. “I will speak to Dr. Davis. Though I must warn you, he will not agree to something like this easily. In fact, he will more than likely just say no.”
“Then send him to me. I will ask him
myself.”
I felt myself shaking as I spoke, a mixture of fear, anger, and exhaustion operating my words and body. I could feel my heart pitter-pattering beneath my twig-like chest, wearily reacting to the sudden surge of adrenaline.
“Okay,” she whispered, smiling at me through obvious tears. “I will see that he speaks with you. He will be here later this afternoon.”
“Also, I need to make a phone call. I want to call the officer that Gauge sold his motorcycle to. I need to clear up some business with him…but without Gauge knowing.”
She continued to smile as she nodded her head in agreement.
“I will bring the phone up when Gauge is in the garden.”
I smiled, thanked her, and succumbed to the sleep the small breakfast influenced as my digestion commanded the full reserves of my limited energy.
***
“Officer Jenkins, it’s Dustin.”
Silence.
“Are you there?”
“Yes,” a voice replied. “I’m here, Dustin.
I’m just surprised to hear from you is all.”
“I need to speak to you regarding the Indian. Gauge shouldn’t have sold it to you…or to anyone. I want to talk to you about somehow reversing the deal you guys made.”
Again, silence.
“Officer Jenkins?”
“Yes. I’m here, Dustin,” the man replied, clearing his throat. “I mean, I don’t know how much there is to talk about. Gauge and I came to an agreement, and I’ve already wired him the cash. He said it was urgent.”
“It was,” I stated, my voice slowly fading.
“I’m sick, Officer Jenkins.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear. Are you okay?”
I waited a moment before replying, conscious to choose my words carefully but too overcome by weakness to care.
“I’m dying, Officer Jenkins,” I replied with
out emotion. “I have AIDS.”
I listened to the man breathe for what must have been several minutes before he finally found a response.
“I am so, so very sorry to hear this, Dustin,” he spoke breathlessly, his words thick and coated with raw emotion. “Gauge didn’t mention this.”
“He wouldn’t,” I said, the emotionless ice still hovering over my words. “Gauge has yet to fully accept what is happening to me. I think he thought selling the bike and getting me into this private hospice was somehow going to save me.”
I could hear Officer Jenkins swallow nervously on the other side of the phone receiver.
“But it won’t. There isn’t anything that can save me.”
I allowed the officer to absorb and process my words before continuing.
“I need you to promise me that after I am gone, you will allow Gauge to return to Barstow to stay with you while he works to save the money to pay you back. The bike was his father’s. It means everything to him. I can’t be at peace knowing he isn’t with the Indian.”
I waited for a reply but received only silence.
“The Indian is family, Officer Jenkins. You
don’t sell family.”
There was another long pause before Officer Jenkins finally spoke.
“Of course. I understand,” he said gently, his words heavy with sadness. “I will be more than happy to agree to that.”
I sighed, a tearless weight lifted from my spirit.
“Thank you,” I whispered, “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”
“You got it, my friend.” I could tell he was crying, the sound of his tears jumping beneath his words like the wheels of his police cruiser whenever it rumbled down a desert dirt road.
“Dustin,” he started, taking a moment to collect his full professional composure. “God bless you. May God always bless you.”
I hung up the phone, too exhausted to reply.
I sank into the pillow and waited for another wave of meaningless sleep to wash over me.