Malibu Motel

by Chaunceton Bird

  I didn’t respond because I figured my approval went without saying.

  Dr. Clayton said, “This is Raelynn, she’s going to get that blood from you. I’ll be back with the results in a few minutes. Are you comfortable?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Raelynn swabbed the crook of my elbow, said, “Little poke,” then rammed a needle through my skin. She found the vein first try, and I watched my blood snake through a tube into a clear plastic bag. Satisfied with her take, she pulled the needle out and told me to hold a cotton ball over the excavation site. She buttoned things up, taped a new cotton ball to my arm, then walked out of the room saying something like, “Dr. Clayton will be back with your results in a few minutes.”

  An eternity later, Dr. Clayton walked in looking down at a clipboard. “Alright, Cash, you have tested positive for HIV—”

  “Oh God oh God,” I feel another anxiety attack coming on.

  “But, before you ask any questions or get too worked up over that, let me tell you what that means and what that does not mean. First, and most importantly, you are not dying. Your T-cell count is low, but it’s not devastatingly low. There are all sorts of treatments that we’ll get you started on today that will get that T-cell count up again. In a few months you will be back to tip-top shape. Second, you do not have AIDS. HIV can cause AIDS, but you do not have that, and will not get AIDS because we are going to begin treating your HIV today. And third, since your T-cell count is low, you have been more susceptible to illness. A T-cell count measures your white blood cells, which are essentially the cells of the immune system. With a lower white blood cell count, your body is less able to defend you against infectious diseases. This would explain your cold-like symptoms, which is actually pneumonia. Regarding your—”

  “Oh Christ, I have pneumonia too?”

  “Yes, but that is also treatable and we’ll begin treatment for that today.”

  “You mean chemotherapy?”

  “Um, no. Pneumonia is a common lung infection. Not cancer.”

  “Oh, yeah. Okay. I sometimes mix pneumonia up with... what is it?”

  “What is what?”

  “Umm... leukemia! Sometimes I mix it up with leukemia. That’s cancer, right?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry about that, you don’t have leukemia, which, you’re right, is a type of cancer. But pneumonia is not. No chemotherapy necessary. We’ll write you a prescription for the pneumonia and you’ll likely have that kicked in a week or two. Your HIV regimen will be more intensive, and will take longer, but at your stage we usually see a high rate of success. We will—”

  “So you can cure it?”

  “Unfortunately there is not presently a cure for HIV, but with effective treatment you can live a full life without suffering from the side effects of HIV.”

  “But I’ll still have it?”

  “For now, yes. But HIV research has come a long way in recent years, and we are getting closer to a cure. Although you will still have HIV, after treatment you likely will not suffer from any of the side effects, and you will likely live a long life that will not be truncated by the disease,” Dr. Clayton said. I thought about what she was saying. She studied me. Seeing that I didn’t have any questions at the moment, she continued.

  “Treatment will start today. We will get you on antiretroviral therapy, which is essentially a combination of medications that prevent the immunodeficiency virus from multiplying, which will give your immune system a chance to rebound and start fighting.”

  “Is this like, a handful of pills a day type of thing?”

  “Not at all. Back in the 1990s it used to be that way, sort of a pill cocktail, but we’ve come a long way. Now it will be just a few pills once a day, plus the medication for your pneumonia.”

  “What are the side effects?”

  “Of the medication?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That varies from person to person, although most side effects are relatively mild. You may experience a headache or dizziness, and the medication may cause some stomach soreness. If your throat starts swelling or you begin vomiting, come back in immediately. Otherwise, I’ll want to see you again next week, then every two weeks for the next two months, then monthly for the next six months. Here are your prescriptions.” Dr. Clayton handed me a small slip of paper that had pre-printed medications on the top and handwritten medications on the bottom. “These prescriptions are for your HIV treatment, and this one here at the bottom is for your pneumonia. Somebody is bringing over the HIV medication right now, and you can get your pneumonia prescription filled here at the hospital or at your preferred pharmacy.” There was a knock at the door. “Speak of the Devil,” Dr. Clayton said. She opened the door and a nurse delivered a paper sack. “Here is your HIV medication. You absolutely must take this as prescribed. Here is a number to call if you have any questions.”

  Dr. Clayton sat and appraised the impact of her words. “I know this can be a lot, Cash, but you’re going to be alright. That’s the bottom line.”

  “It’s Caish.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My name. It’s Caish.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry about that. What did I say? Cash?”

  Night’s darkness and temperature drop had settled in by the time I left the hospital. Or maybe this is just what the world is like when one is infected with HIV. Perhaps it’s cold darkness from here on out. I drove home in a trance. I was HIV positive. My body was carrying HIV. And would carry HIV until the day I died. A cureless shadow lurking in my bloodstream for decades to come. Every decade I had left. My blood was laced with death. I carried poisonous blood. I was literally poisonous.

  After ordering pizza and warming up next to my fireplace, I combed the internet for information on HIV. I remember Dr. Clayton talking to me, but I can hardly remember what she said. Most of the stuff online seems pretty hopeful. I found a story about a guy in Berlin who was cured of HIV, so a cure must exist. Given my situation (on the verge of broke and on probation), I was in no position to go to Germany. The trip would have to wait until I made back my money.

  In the weeks after Alex broke the news about giving me HIV, I was recurrently dizzy. Like when you first wake up and stumble around, not sure what day it is or whether the dream you just had was real or not. I did as Dr. Clayton told me, and took all my medications when instructed. I kept my appointments with Dr. Clayton and reported my progress and side effects. Whenever my color was called, I continued to report and fill cups full of clean urine. Well, my urine had HIV, so maybe not completely clean.

  My days turned into a routine of waking up around 8:00 a.m. (an ungodly hour), waiting for a phone call from Jennifer Trunchbull, showering, eating breakfast at a diner in town, swallowing my pills, then returning home to wallow in soberness for the rest of the day.

  The HIV medication hurt. At first it felt like my insides were sunburned. Eating was painful and I had the runs. Dr. Clayton told me that quitting smoking would help with the side effects, but smoking was all I had left, so I passed on that advice. I went to Grier’s Hardware every now and then to see how Alex was doing, but Alex was never there. Alex also blocked me on Facebook, which was unfair. It would have been nice to talk to somebody who was going through this, or who had been through this, but I was alone. People that used to be my friends didn’t respond to my texts, wouldn’t answer my calls, and acted like they didn’t see my Facebook messages. I felt like an iceberg at sea. Once part of a mighty glacier, surrounded by majestic mountains of ice, now drifting into the open ocean. Slowly melting and falling apart, with fading memories of what it used to feel like to be part of the whole. Glaciers don’t miss their icebergs.

  The Rayburns, two of my closest friends, had drifted far from the glacier. Through Facebook I learned they had lost everything and moved back to Alaska to live with family. Tim was driving trucks and Selina was a manager at a Kohl’s. They fell out of wealth’s sparkling cloud and landed back in the mud with all the other commone
rs. Forced to slog their lives away for meager hourly pay. Well I guess Tim was probably paid by the mile, but still. Drudgery. A drudgery to which I refused to return. I earned my way out of that. I used to be a mechanic. I know what it’s like to take orders from other peasants. Inconsequential tasks, meaningless deadlines, and pointless people are trifles that wealth insulates you from. Selina and Tim’s story snapped me out of my self-pity and got me back down to the gas station to buy more lottery tickets. I had slacked off for a little while, distracted by the new drama in my life.

  I needed money. I was running low. Ultra-low. Almost less than six digits in the bank account low. Walmart was selling these lottery gift baskets that had all sorts of lottery games in them. Over a hundred tickets from all sorts of games: Pirate’s Treasure, Diamonds and Dollars, Super Cashword 17, BIG Money, Golden Casino, 10x Cash, Hot Cash, Pearls, Jewel 7$, Green, Flamingo, Mega Slots, Platinum Payout, Silver Spectacular. The list went on. A whole basket full. I bought three baskets, a few MegaMillions and Powerball tickets, a pack of frozen burritos, and a 24-pack of Diet Coke. Then I waited in line for twenty minutes.

  Once home, I microwaved the burritos, turned on my fireplace and TV, and made myself a nest with blankets and pillows on the carpet next to the fireplace. I situated the pack of Diet Coke away from the fireplace, put two packs of cigarettes within reach of the nest, and cued up HBO (they just released a new original series). I brought my burritos over to my nest and started the show. God, HBO knew how to make quality productions. Finished with my burritos, I slid the plate across the carpet toward my kitchen and reached for the first of my three lottery baskets. I had hours of scratching ahead of me. But anybody who is not willing to work for their money doesn’t deserve it.

  I cracked open another Diet Coke and unwrapped the basket of tickets. I had hundreds of tickets to get through, HBO ready to play for hours, two full packs of cigarettes, and a fireplace with an infinite supply of natural gas. For the first time since sleeping with Alex months ago, I felt happy. The joy and excitement of money was at my fingertips. It was like wealth had finally sent me a text that said, “You up?”

  Each lottery ticket could be my ticket out of Montana and back to the promised land. The first ticket I pulled out was a Make My Month (“Win Up To $50,000!”). I used my lucky quarter to scratch away the film hiding my winning numbers at the top of the ticket. 9, 2, 48. I started scratching through the fifteen prize spots looking for my numbers. As an added bonus, if I found a cash symbol I would automatically win whatever that prize was, if I got a bag of gold symbol, I would win five times the prize shown, and if I got a “MONTH” symbol, I would win all fifteen prizes. I got close on one of the prizes, but didn’t win anything. The first ticket was not a winner. But that’s what you have to expect with these. The odds of winning on the first ticket are slim. I work through the basket systematically and do all of the Make My Months first. Then I would move on to the Wild Cherry tickets, the Platinum Payouts, and the Super Cashwords.

  Only ten tickets in and I won my first prize, twenty dollars. Not a huge win, but a good sign. And I only needed ten of those and the lottery gift basket paid for itself. I went into the kitchen to get a bowl for the winning tickets and a bowl for the losing tickets. Having returned to my nest and situated myself within arm’s reach of all necessary parts of my operation, I lit a cigarette and got back to it.

  I scratched and scratched. Ticket after ticket. Most tickets were losers, of course, but I was bringing in a fair amount of small wins. My winning ticket bowl was filling up. The first basket took me two episodes of HBO’s new series to get through. During my break, I heated up another burrito and kicked back on my couch with a Diet Coke. My bowl of winners was looking good. No big wins, but a lot of little wins and probably enough to pay off my initial investment in that basket. The burrito warmed my stomach. I pulled one of the blankets from my nest up onto the couch with me and began to drift off.

  When I woke up, everything was exactly how I’d left it, except HBO had soldiered on without me. Four episodes passed during my nap. It was probably around two or three in the morning. I went back to the episode I left off on, rebuilt my nest, lit a cigarette, and got back to work. You have to be willing to work late nights if you want success.

  Basket number two was a total loss. There were only thirteen winning tickets; twelve of them for $1. The thirteenth was for $5. Without taking a break between the second and third basket, I tore off the wrapping and kept scratching. I worked through the Golden Casinos and Green Flamingos without much luck. The Mega Slots gave me a few winners, one of which was $100. Momentum was building again, I could feel it. One of the Silver Spectacular’s earned me $20. Several more $1 victories filled my winners bowl. With around fifty tickets to go, I started scratching off the Super Hot 7s.

  My third ticket in and bells of wealth began to chime. On the fourth scratch area I revealed a “7” which means I won something. I scratched off the prize area below it to see what I had won: “$5000.” I won five thousand dollars! That would cover this month’s mortgage. And that ticket was only a one dollar scratch ticket. Five thousand dollars. I knew I still had it in me. A little perseverance goes a long way. If you dare to take risks, you can reap rewards that others are too afraid to try and harvest. These are the types of things they don’t teach you in college.

  With triumph I placed the $5000 Super Hot 7s ticket into the winner’s bowl. I worked my way through the rest of the final basket and got a couple more small denomination winners. With my calculator app in hand, I added up my night’s earnings. $5,212. And that was from a six hundred-dollar investment. Not to mention, I still had my MegaMillions and Powerball tickets to play later in the week.

  The next morning, after peeing in a cup, I took my stack of winning tickets to the grocery store and cashed out. Holding thousands of dollars in cash felt good. The familiar feel of holding hands with money gave me goosebumps. I could have used the money to pay off some of my newly incurred credit card debt, or I could have put it toward my mortgage, but I decided to keep it. This was the first cash I had since spending the last of my million in cash during the whole Pismo disaster. This was the first money I had earned since moving to Montana. I didn’t feel like parting with it so soon. Maybe I’d never part with it. Maybe this $5,212 would stay with me through thick and thin, through sickness and health. Money didn’t care that I didn’t live in Malibu anymore or that I drove a Suburban. It didn’t care that I owned peasant clothes. It didn’t care that I couldn’t afford a yacht or a helicopter. Money didn’t care that I had HIV.

  16

  Spring finally arrived and life returned to Montana. The field across from my house and the golf course out my back door went through a yellow and brown muddy phase, but are now blooming with vibrant greens. On the occasional sunny day I go for a drive, but the rain keeps me indoors most days. Well. The rain and the gossip.

  Apparently Ms. Black heard every word (and then some) that Alex and I said on my porch, which could be distilled to the easily transferable news that Alex and I had sex, and now both had HIV. Ms. and Mr. Black were the wind behind the wildfire that carried the gossip. Missoula provided dry kindling for the fire: everybody knew each other, everybody knew the perpetrators, and everybody understood the consequences. Imagine the sensationalism:

  “Oh my God, Mable, you ain’t gon’ believe this. You ‘member Alex Rettig from high school?” Gossip Goblin would say.

  “Umm. Oh yeah yeah,” Rumor Rat would reply.

  “And you ‘member Caish Calloway?”

  “How could I forget? Course I ‘member Caish Calloway. Quite the looker. Talented too, and quite witty, if I ‘member correctly.”

  “Okay, so Caish moved away shortly after high school to California. Left ol’ Alex out to dry so Caish could go sun tan and make money or somethin’. Alex stayed in this here town, workin’ and startin’ a family. Married to Peyton somethin’-or-other.”

  “Right,” Rumor Rat would say, “I t
hink I seen Alex workin’ at Grier’s Hardware.”

  “Indeed ja have, that’s Alex. Workin’ hard. Hwell, meanwhile, Caish wins the lottery in California.”

  “Nah! Really?” So sensational! They’d be gripped by the story at this point. Locked in. Imagining the wonders of wealth and guessing at the means of tragedy that surely (hopefully?) lies at the end of this yarn.

  “Yeah, really. I kid ja not. ‘Member how all the Calloways bought all them big fancy houses and Corvettes? That’s how. Caish gave ‘em all millions.”

  “Well hot damn.”

  “But, didjya know Caish had come back to town?” Gossip Goblin would say, lowering his voice and leaning in, suggesting that the story was about to get a whole lot juicer.

  “Really? Why’d ol’ Caish come on back?”

  “Caish came back, tail betwixt the legs, ‘cause Caish ain’t got no money left.”

  “Ya don’t say. Spent through all the millions?”

  “Spent it straight through. Dead broke.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “Me too. Damn fool.”

  From what I could tell, news of the incident with my Porsche and Jackie at Pismo Beach had not yet arrived in Montana. If it had, Gossip Goblin would be sure and include it here. It was only a matter of time until the Blacks learned about that too, and would cash in that bit of information. The scandalmongers also wouldn’t mention Jamie T. Lowell and Green Mountain. Even if they knew about that part, they’d keep it out because it either wouldn’t make sense to them, or they wouldn’t want to include “mitigating factors,” as my attorney would say. Easier just to say I spent it all and think to themselves that they would have been wiser, and that, in their wisdom, they deserved the money more, but that the injustice of the universe gave it to fools like Caish Calloway instead of shrewd scholars like Gossip Goblin and Rumor Rat.

  “Anyway,” Gossip Goblin would continue, “Caish comes back to town and calls up lowly ol’ Alex. Still have each other’s numbers after all these years.”