While waiting for my name to be called I browsed through a few pamphlets. CHLAMYDIA: DO YOU KNOW THE FACTS? I obviously didn’t—I’d never even heard of it. The pamphlet said it was rampant among college students and virtually undetectable in males—no discharge, no irritation—but left untreated could cause sterility and pelvic inflammatory disease.
My name was called out loud enough to be heard stateside. I shuffled into the examination room feeling like I should have been wearing a trench coat and rubber boots with nothing underneath. The room was white and empty. I hung my jacket on the coat rack and sat down. My underarms were sticky. The door opened and I was stunned by the woman who walked in. She had olive smooth skin straight off a Mediterranean Isle, straight teeth, facial hair and a starched white lab coat that, like everything else, aroused me. Cursed addiction!
“Hello,” she said, but I knew what she was thinking—what everybody thinks when a patient arrives at a venereal disease clinic. I searched my brain for a tactful way to tell her, “It’s not what you think.”
“It’s not what you think,” I said.
She smiled. “It rarely is. What can I do for you?”
“I … I’d like to be tested for venereal disease, please.”
“This is the place to be. What are your symptoms?”
“Um … anxiety, headaches, fatigue …”
“Any genital irritation?”
“No.”
“Discomfort when you urinate?”
“No.”
“Have you been with someone who has informed you of having a sexually transmitted disease?”
“No.”
She paused, her mouth flexed as though about to speak. “Why are you here?”
“Well … it’s just … I thought … as a citizen, it’s something I feel everyone … should be here.”
She put the pad down. “You’re sweating an awful lot,” she said gently. “Are you all right?”
“Yes … good … somewhat anxious … I understand chlamydia can be difficult to detect.”
“Have you been involved with someone who has had the disease?”
“Who can know?”
“So you’ve had multiple partners?”
“No. But I’ve had sexual intercourse without the use of a prophylactic. We used one at first and since but in the heat of a brief moment, my inner reproductive drive outwilled my internal yearn to survive and we didn’t … and the problem is I don’t know her sexual history. I think she’s quite … well, let me put it this way. She’s in her thirties and she dances nude.”
The woman cleared her throat. “It doesn’t sound like you have much to worry about. But just to be sure, we’ll do a swab. Take down your pants, please.” My penis slipped into my groin like a sinking ship on a vertical sea. Opening a drawer on the examination bed, the woman pulled out a pair of latex gloves, snapped them twice and slipped them on. I couldn’t move, paralysed at the thought of exposing my genitals to a stranger. I’d done that with Lucy and the results were obvious. I hedged my way towards her.
“I must confess,” I said, “I’m mildly afraid of Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.” She looked up as though wanting me to continue. “I’ve been run down lately. Actually, I feel relatively healthy today but I’ve had what felt like the flu for about six, maybe seven, days.”
“Are you at risk?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you practice high risk behaviour … anal intercourse, needle sharing—are you bisexual?”
“Bisexual? No. Never. I’m hardly heterosexual … none of the above. I just … high risk? Good Lord. Fifteen million people have the disease! We didn’t use a condom! What does it take to be high risk?”
“Sir,” she said, “I’m going to ask you to sit down.”
“Oh … sorry.” I sat down.
“So … How long ago did you have sex with this person?”
“A month?”
“Hm.”
“I’m not promiscuous. I loved that woman.”
“Did you know there’s a three to six month incubation period for antibodies to show up in testing for the AIDS virus?”
I slumped. “So you think there’s a chance?”
“I think you’re fine, sir, but we can take a test to ease your mind. Then, if you so choose, you can get tested again in a few months.”
“Thank you,” I said, “very much.”
She smiled. “Now, stand up and take your pants down, please.” She turned away and picked up a urethral swab off the table. My pelvis took a step back. I undid my pants and let them drop. She turned around and looked at me—and then at my mid-section. “And your underwear,” she said.
“Oh, of course,” I said. Not knowing procedure, I had hoped she wouldn’t mind if I just let my penis peek through as though not really belonging to me. I lowered my boxer shorts, dismayed to find my penis resembling a withered mushroom. The woman readjusted one of her gloves and I had a flash of her returning home after work and relaying in Italian to a massive extended family the story about the man with no genitalia who came in for a V.D. test.
With the thumb and index finger of her left hand she held my penis. With the other hand she held a urethral swab dart-like and cocked. “This is going to sting,” she said.
In it went. I grunted, feeling as if my urethra had been pierced by the fat end of a pool cue.
She pulled it out. “We’ll take a culture of that and then let you know.” She turned and put the swab in a test-tube and then turned back to me. “Now we’ll take a blood test—you can pull your pants back up at any time …”
“Sorry.”
The blood test was less traumatic. In fact, by its completion we were deep into a non-venereal disease conversation and I, young fool, felt urged to ask her out on a date. Unfortunately, blurting, “It’s queer this game of love,” was as close as I got. She responded with, “Call next week for the results,” and offered a smile (the closed mouth kind) before leaving.
I stood for a moment in silence—save the hum of the fluorescent lights—while my armpits exuded that pungent odour characteristic of nervous sweat. No, I and the nurse would not become lovers; and yet in the sharing of a few brief sentences I felt we’d both gained a greater empathy for the sexual plight of humankind. Lifting my jacket from the coat rack, I slipped it on and walked through the door. I could tell that a pair of nurses at the front desk and a man in the waiting room who undoubtedly had V.D. were staring at me—probably gathering assumptions and judgements to soften the horror of their own existence. Willing to be their temporary scapegoat, I strutted past them, exiting via the main entrance into a dull Vancouver morning.
Arriving home, I stepped on a stack of mail inside the front door; junk flyers, an unemployment insurance cheque addressed to Eric for which I’m sure he was desperate—he and another friend had met Eric’s Dad for a holiday in Southern California—and beneath it all, a manilla envelope.
From: Peg and Ed Lewis. To: Dr. Shelby Lewis, M.D.
Opening it slowly did not buffer the shock of an F in Zoology. The remaining marks were palatable: one pass, two second classes and a first class. There was a letter from the Faculty of Medicine: We are sorry to inform you that you have not been … Worst of all, however, was a cheque from my parents for two thousand dollars. Their letter, written by Mom, read:
Dear Doogie (Dad insisted),
We hope your exams went well. Let us know as soon as you find out and don’t worry if you don’t get in, there’s always next year. Very few students get into medical school before they’ve completed their degree. We’ve enclosed a cheque to help pay for next year’s tuition and books. Try to come and see us before the summer ends. Gran was visited by the police for mooning religious solicitors again.
Miss you,
Love Mom and Dad
Weighing the positives (the cheque would help pay for food and lodging and save me from dressing up in a chicken suit) and the negatives (keeping it would be ethically wrong and make sl
eeping difficult), I decided to think of the money as an interest-free loan to a son in need. To give the cheque back would be to admit that my academic career had been abandoned for the duration, a display that would cause only pain. On the other hand, my journey to who-knows-what-heights was far from complete and this money would surely aid in its evolvement. That in mind, I mustered the nerve to phone home and confess my non-acceptance into medical school. Mom’s response was one of disappointed compassion. Dad, however, blamed it on preferential treatment for minorities. I never made mention of dropping out and they never mentioned the cheque.
Later that night, to my startled surprise, I was awakened by a call from Lucy. She was at work and between dances. She’d got my number from Loretta. She was interested in getting together with me. Potential reasons abounded: admittance of a veneral disease, pregnancy or AIDS.
“Tonight?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Were you in bed?”
“Um … yes.”
“Bad time?”
“No.”
“I’m not off til one-thirty.”
“Uh … okay.”
“The Bread Garden? Say, two?”
“Where is that again?”
“First and Burrard.”
“Okay.”
It was ten after two before Lucy arrived. I made no mention of her tardiness, nor was I aloof.
“Thanks for coming, Shel,” she said, sitting down.
“You’re welcome,” I replied. And then came her smile. My heart inflated like a hot water bottle, my insides danced the tango and passion bolted towards my capital city until it throbbed like ten thousand peasants in riotous celebration. Life, I salute you!
“You like cheesecake?” I nodded. “Strawberries?” I nodded. “Yeah,” she said to the waitress, “can we have two slices of the strawberry cheesecake, an espresso and …” Lucy glanced at me. “Hot chocolate?” I nodded.
“Okay, Shel. Here it is. You and me. The story? We were gettin’ a little too … permanent. I got the chance to go away for work and I jumped at it. It was a cop-out, no doubt about it—but in my own defense, I was confused, like I was scrambling through a pile of laundry but I couldn’t tell the dirty from the clean, you know? What’s good for me? What’s bad for me? I was feeling trapped. That’s why I left. Anyway, I figure I owe you at least the honesty I feel you offered me. So what I’m going to do is give you some background. I’ll save my childhood for another day. For now, I’ll start with Frank. First off, who is he? He’s a prick. Second off, I married him. Third off, we’re still married.”
“You’re a married woman?”
“Easy. Separated. Here’s the line on Frank. Subject to fits of anger and physical violence, he’s a drug user with a perverse sort of vulnerable charm, he owns a night club—the Big Dipper—he’s the one who got me started stripping, he gets off on lingerie … what else? He’s a big fucker … he’s a dumb fucker … uh … get this: He’s got a hockey card collection worth about $20,000.”
“Wow.”
“Now me: I’m roughly the same, hold the cards and the panties.”
“You do drugs?”
“Did.”
My mind flashed to the AIDS test. “Needles?”
“No. Coke, hash, uppers, downers … I still do cigarettes, obviously.”
“—and Tylenol.”
“True enough.”
“Aspirin.”
“Same thing.”
“Wine.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. So anyway, here it is: Three years ago or so I met Marj. She was another stripper. Have you heard of the Rajneeshees?”
“No.”
“Well, they … she … that’s another story. But let’s just say I saw some alternative ways of two steppin’ with this life thing. Remember the Goddess dreams I was telling you about?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I started havin’ ’em again. I started sticking up for myself. I started wondering about what the hell I was doing, you know? I started feeling … hopeful. Naturally, any form of self-examination led to one thing first and foremost: dump Frank. So I did. Since then things have been slowly improving. Reading’s about my worst offense these days. Course there’s a butt-load of old baggage. Where the hell’s my self-esteem? I know I saw it here somewhere … that kind of thing. A.A. meetings. N.A. meetings. Oh yeah, I had a rotten childhood, too.” Lucy bellowed out a laugh. “And Frank the prick manages to slime back into my life from time to time—if only to show me the battle never ends. Then all my old ways of dealing with shit come back—you know, punching, spitting, scratching … House of Commons stuff.” Lucy laughed. “But I guess that’s the price of history. All events lead to where we are today. Anyway, I’m sorry if I let you down. Enough about me. How have you been doing? You sound a little stuffed up.”
“Me? Yes … I … I’ve had a cold but I’m doing well. I’ve been seeking employment, et cetera …” I stopped talking, dropped my head in my hands and took a deep breath. “Why must I lie? I’ve been in turmoil. Fearing death. Fearing life! Out with it! Who have you slept with!?”
Lucy cracked a wide open smile. “What?”
“I’ve had the flu for god knows how long!”
“Why are you yelling?”
“AIDS, Lucy, AIDS! We had unprotected intercourse! Fear has left me without foundation.”
“Shel, everything leaves you without foundation.”
“How can you joke?”
Smiling, Lucy reached out and took my hand. “You’re pretty cool, Shel,” she said, “and, yes, I’ve been tested. After Frank and I broke up. You’re the only person I’ve slept with since.”
“And?”
“It was okay, you know? You’re a little inexperienced. I’m a little neurotic about the whole thing—”
“I mean the test result.”
“Negative—what do you take me for?”
“What a relief! Of course there’s still that new strain that doesn’t show up antibodies for HIV—something like eleven cases worldwide. Nevertheless, the odds appear to be in our favour. I think we can both look forward to an angst free sleep tonight.”
“I’m glad to hear it … Look, Shel, maybe I’m out o’ line because I don’t even know what you want. But seeing as we’re trying to do the honesty thing here and we’re talking about sex …” The cheesecake came. “I’m just goin’ to spit it out: I like you and I want to spend time with you but the thought of getting regularly laid makes me sick … no offence.”
“None taken. I understand.”
“You do?”
“Of course, Lucy. I’m certain we can work out a reasonable timetable.”
Lucy laughed. “Uh … I don’t think … what I mean is … we can stay lovers, but sex between us is over.”
“Over?”
“Yeah.”
“Does that include kissing and general affection?”
“Shel, I don’t want to get into semantic bullshit. If we can’t be mature enough to be sexless lovers, let’s just forget it.”
“Don’t jump all over me. I can do that!”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“You feel okay about it?”
“Yes.”
“Great. You know I’m dying for a cigarette.”
“So have a cigarette.”
“You’ve got cheesecake on your chin.”
“So?”
Our eyes took hold. She grinned. “So wipe it off.”
“I’ll do whatever I want to do,” I said, holding my own.
IX
Live your life, poor as it is.
—H. D. Thoreau
It would appear the short passage of time Lucy and I spent together on a carnal level was God giving me a quick dabble into matters of the flesh so as to save me building up an unhealthy preoccupation with the subject thereby losing my focus to get on with whatever it was I was destined to get on with, which I soon found out to be correcting social injustice.
&nb
sp; I dropped by Lucy’s apartment late one afternoon to find the curtains closed and the lights out. She answered the door with the chain lock still on. She’d never done that before. Her eyes peeked through the door crack.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Oh, hi, Shel,” she said, “yeah.” She let me in.
“Do you have another migraine?”
“No.”
“Your cheek looks flushed,” I said. “Do you have a fever?”
Lucy looked up at me. “No …”
“What’s going on?”
“Me and Frank,” she said, shrugging.
“What?”
She smiled. “We went at ’er,” she said.
“What?”
“It was tit for tat, you know?”
“Tit for tat?” We stared. There was a pause. “Did … he … he struck you?”
“It was more of a violent wrestle.”
“But … but he’s a man!” I cried, spinning around and running into the still open door. “You’re not even married to him anymore!”
“Take it easy.”
“Lucy, he hit you.”
“I’m okay, honestly. He won’t be back.”
“No, no no! This is too much.” I turned and ran down the steps.
“Where are you going?”
“This is wrong! I will not allow another voice to be silenced.”
“Whose voice?”
“The bell tolls for thee!”
“Shel, come back. It’s not—”
“Honour!” I yelled, traumatized, dazed, getting into my car and driving off, Lucy’s shouts wailing into an unresponding street.
Arriving at the Big Dipper club and having to double park only increased my frenzy. I stormed through the main door and grilled the cocktail waitress as to Frank’s whereabouts. “Stop spitting, you little shit,” she said, pointing to a behemoth who was clumping out the door, “he’s over there.” I ran out the other exit and caught up to him.
“Excuse me?” I said, to a thick boned man perhaps six foot four and 230 pounds, with his suit and crew cut a cross between punk and yuppie.
“You wouldn’t be Frank, would you?”
He adjusted a pair of dark glasses. “I might be,” he said.
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