Where We Go From Here

Home > Other > Where We Go From Here > Page 10
Where We Go From Here Page 10

by Lucas Rocha


  “What?” I ask, and I notice Sandra looking over at me with curiosity.

  “Test. A movie I saw yesterday about the beginning of the AIDS epidemic and how everyone called it the gay virus. The main characters are in a dance company, and there are some really beautiful scenes with their choreographies. There’s also a really great sentence that I wrote down here.” She pulls out her Moleskine, turning the pages full of sketches and incomplete scribbles until she finds what she’s looking for. “ ‘Fuck art. Let’s dance.’ This is what one of the characters tells the other in the middle of the movie. I thought it was really beautiful.”

  “Fuck art?” one of the guys asks. “We make a living from art, Erica. That’s a little offensive, no?”

  “No, no. In the context of the movie, it makes a lot of sense. It’s like, ‘Let’s stop analyzing the things that might not even mean that much after all and be free,’ or ‘Let’s live, we’ve got our whole lives ahead of us,’ you know? At least that’s how I read it.”

  “It’s really wild how quickly things escalated, isn’t it?” another guy interjects, one with an anemic look about him and who seems to feed exclusively on Proust. “Overnight, everyone started dying, and no one knew what it was, just that the only ones dying were gay. It must have been terrifying.”

  “I think it’s still terrifying, actually,” says the girl who saw the movie, putting away her Moleskine. “We still haven’t eradicated AIDS in the world.”

  “Oh, of course not. But these days things are under control …” The guy loses his train of thought. “What I mean is, it’s treatable, so you can live relatively well with someone who has HIV.”

  “You’re just saying that.” I notice Sandra joins the conversation nonchalantly, but I look at her cautiously. She stares at me with a determined look.

  “And you seem quick to judge someone just by what they say.” The guy seems offended. “It’s as if we’re saying that, I don’t know, we can’t or shouldn’t date people with HIV.”

  “Would you date someone who is HIV-positive?” Sandra asks without a second thought, staring at the guy as if challenging him. She darts her eyes at me again for a millisecond, and I know it’s meant as a provocative question.

  “Why not?” he answers, shrugging. “I think nowadays positive people can live just fine with the virus. If they took good care of themselves and we used condoms, I don’t see why that would be a problem.”

  “Ugh, no, y’all, that’d be super complicated,” a girl named Luana chimes in, speaking for the first time before she takes a gulp from her beer. “Easier said than done. You can’t just dive into a relationship like that without acknowledging that it’s a risk.”

  “But isn’t every relationship a risk?” Sandra asks, looking at Luana. “Or do you require blood tests from everyone you have sex with?”

  “No! It’s one thing to use a condom for a casual hookup, but something else entirely to commit to using them for the rest of your life!”

  “It’s all about condoms, then? Even if you’re in love with the person and they might be the love of your life? You’re giving a lot of power to a piece of latex.”

  “So you’d be in a relationship with someone who had HIV?” asks Luana, crossing her arms, clearly annoyed at the point Sandra’s making.

  “Yes! I don’t know, I don’t even think I’d mind, if the person took good care of themselves.”

  “You’re only saying that because you’ve never been in that situation,” I blurt out, and I regret it almost immediately, because she shoots daggers at me with her eyes. Suddenly, all eyes are on me.

  I swallow, and when everyone remains silent, I go on: “It’s easy to say, ‘Yeah, I’d get into a relationship with someone who’s positive, no worries!’ when you’re not in that situation. Once you’re in that situation, everything gets more complicated.”

  Me and my big mouth.

  “Have you been in a relationship with someone you knew was positive, Victor?” Luana asks.

  Before I can answer, Sandra interrupts, “Whoa, Luana, rude much?”

  “What?” The girl seems confused.

  “I don’t think that’s anyone’s business.”

  “We’re all friends here, Sandra” is her attempt at explaining herself.

  “Still. Rude.”

  “I’m sorry.” Luana raises her hands to indicate that she’s innocent. “No need to answer that if you don’t want to, Victor.”

  “I haven’t been in a relationship yet with someone who has HIV, at least not to my knowledge,” I answer, offending Sandra even more with my lie. “But I’ve talked to someone who’s on treatment, and he seemed more shaken psychologically than physically.”

  “And assuming you were interested in that person, knowing that he’s positive, would you take the next step? Like, would you continue to show interest?” asks Luana.

  “As a reminder, this is potentially the love of your life, and the two of you could be happy forever, and all this relationship needs to work is an ultra-thin piece of latex and some doctor’s appointments,” adds Sandra. “Is that too high a price to pay for happiness?”

  The conversation is getting more uncomfortable by the second, and I’m sure Sandra is doing this on purpose. Not that she brought up the subject, but she certainly sustained it to the point that it became the main topic of discussion.

  I feel my ears burning when I notice that all the other conversations around the table have died down, and everyone is watching me, waiting for my answer. I start considering the possibility of offering a politically correct “Yes, I would.” At the same time, I also think about saying that this is stupid and there are too many people in the world for me to end up getting involved with somebody who could make my life more complicated.

  “I don’t … know,” I respond, and that’s all I can say.

  At the moment, it’s the truth.

  Dammit, I’m so confused. I can’t stop thinking about Henrique and Ian, can’t stop thinking about all the fears and frustrations of living with HIV. I can’t stop imagining myself in their shoes, hearing awful things every single day in casual conversations like this one.

  I’m mad at myself because I start thinking about who I was before I met them and how I thought people who got infected with STIs deserved it because they had been stupid enough not to be more careful. Because they’d been promiscuous. Because they’d let themselves get into situations that could have easily been avoided.

  But the problem is that neither Henrique nor Ian will get second chances, and it’s hypocritical to think I’m better than they are when I don’t even know what kind of sex life each of them leads or has led. For all I know, I might have had many more sex partners than Ian or Henrique, so who am I to judge what happened to them?

  I’m mad at myself when I think of how stupid I was for judging people I barely even knew.

  “ ‘I don’t know’ is what separates us from our own happiness, Victor.” Sandra looks me straight in the eye for the first time today, and I feel a wave of relief wash over me when I realize she’s talking to me, even if not in a friendly way. “Don’t be the ‘I don’t know’ guy.”

  I swallow my beer and flash a sheepish smile at what it seems to mean: end of discussion. I cough and say I need to go to the bathroom, trying to draw attention away from my flushed cheeks and sweaty forehead.

  I walk into the filthy bar and wash my face in the sink outside the men’s bathroom. I try to take a deep breath with my eyes closed, ignoring the music from the jukebox and the loud laughter from the people playing pool.

  “That was a little hypocritical of you.” I hear Sandra’s voice behind me.

  I dry my face with my forearms and rub my eyes, trying to piece my thoughts back together.

  “What do you want from me, Sandra?” I ask, weary.

  “I don’t want anything. But what about you, Victor? What do you want?”

  “I already told you … I don’t know.”

  “Of course you
do. I know you know, and more important, you know you know. You just need to admit what it is you really want and leave your fears behind you.”

  I feel my eyes sting.

  Dammit.

  “You’re right, okay? You’re right and I’m wrong and I got desperate because it’s something I don’t know about and it’s been terrifying me ever since it appeared in my life.” Before I can catch myself, I’m spilling it all out and can’t stop. “I don’t have the slightest idea how to deal with this or how to stop thinking about it twenty-four seven, Sandra, and I might have been a jerk, but you know what? I’m really fucking confused. I can’t stop thinking about that idiot and all the things he’s been through in his life. I can’t lie down at night without his name running around in my head and that stupid face appearing before me every two minutes. So, yeah, I might have been a jerk, but I don’t want to be one anymore! He texted me after I deleted his number and invited me to a party tomorrow, and I didn’t know if I’d go or not, but I just decided that I will, because I can’t stop thinking about him! And I hate that you didn’t know that he texted me and invited me to a party, because if you had known, you would probably have already insisted that I go and this wouldn’t be eating me from the inside out. So, for God’s sake, I don’t want to fight anymore!”

  And then, out of nowhere, the tears start coming. Right there in the middle of the bar, surrounded by loud music, the smell of urine, and the noise of pool balls hitting one another, my eyes swell with tears, my breath becomes ragged, and the air doesn’t flow into my lungs as easily. I’m sure that the beer I drank this afternoon has something to do with this sudden burst of emotion.

  Sandra hugs me, and a hug is all I need right now.

  I try to control my breath while I bury my head in her shoulder, feeling my heart pulse wildly in my chest to the beat of a name.

  Hen. Ri. Que. Hen.

  Ri. Que. Hen. Ri.

  Que. Hen. Ri. Que.

  MY APARTMENT LOOKS LIKE AN episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

  Whenever there’s a performance scheduled, the drag queens who live too far from downtown meet up at a house closer to the bar to get ready for the show, and today it’s Eric’s turn to host.

  The apartment is a confusing mess of multicolored tissues and garments. Various shades of gold, silver, and blue are spread around the floor and chairs, every inch of the dining room has been taken over by makeup, and the bedroom mirror has somehow ended up in the living room, where the single painting we own used to hang on the wall. I have to admit, I might just keep it there.

  Everyone is lined up in front of the mirror, all shirtless, with pieces of tape stuck to their foreheads to hold their hair as they transform their sharp, masculine faces into softer features, eyes lined with makeup and full lips covered in a thousand different colors of lipstick.

  “So, Henrique …” One of the girls looks at me through the reflection in the mirror. (When they’re all together, they refer to one another with female pronouns and their drag names, which is both funny and welcoming.) “Bibi told me you’re seeing a new boy. Tell us about him!”

  Bibi Montenegro is Eric’s stage name. They all have names they chose themselves or that were chosen by close friends: Maicon, Felipe, and Tulio are now Mad Madonna, Kara Parker, and Nicolle Lopez, respectively. Each one has an explanation ready as to why they were christened with that drag name. (In Eric’s case, it’s an homage to his favorite actresses, Bibi Ferreira and Fernanda Montenegro.)

  “I’m not seeing anyone new,” I say right away, looking at Bibi, who raises an eyebrow in total twenties femme fatale fashion, then gives me a sideways smile. “Bibi talks too much.”

  “If you hadn’t gone so red so quickly, I’d say Bibi was the biggest liar of the group. But in this case, I think she might be telling the truth,” Mad Madonna retorts, closing one eye to apply eye shadow. “Spit it out, girl! We’ve never had secrets between us, and you’ve always been so reserved and … single! This calls for a celebration!”

  “I heard Henrique invited the boy to the party tonight,” Bibi mumbles in a fake whisper that everyone can hear.

  The squeals start immediately.

  Great, now all eyes are on me.

  “Come on, Henrique, what’s he like?! Is he tall? Strong? Thin? Does he have a little meat on his bones?” Kara Parker asks. “Give us a clue!”

  I glare at Bibi, unhappy, but she just gives me a cynical wink and puts on a thick black wig, adjusting the strands with her fingertips.

  “Okay, but do you swear—really swear—that you’ll leave him alone if he shows up tonight?”

  “For Judy Garland’s sake and the love of Liza Minnelli, I swear,” Mad Madonna says, raising one hand.

  “For Judy Garland’s sake and the love of Liza Minnelli, I swear,” they all repeat, including Bibi.

  “Great.” I pull out my phone and search for a photo of Victor, then show it to everyone.

  “Oh, he’s so young!”

  “And thin!”

  “With blue hair! A rebel, I like it!”

  “What’s his star sign?”

  “Does he have a tattoo?”

  “Is he still breastfeeding? He must be, like, twelve.”

  “Enough!” I grab the phone back, and they all start laughing. “Are you bitches happy now?”

  “Of course not!” Nicolle Lopez says. She puts on a gold choker and adds an accessory to her wig, a gold chain that dangles down to her forehead with a jewel that looks like an emerald. “We’ll only be satisfied when he’s here snuggling with you and you’re calling each other cute stupid names, like sweetheart and sweetie.”

  “Shaaade!” Kara Parker yells, looking over at Mad Madonna as they all start laughing. Sweetheart and sweetie are what Mad Madonna and her boyfriend call each other.

  “Girl, I’d rather sound ridiculous calling my sweetie sweetie than have to come up with a cute nickname because I don’t actually know the name of the guy I’m hooking up with at any given moment.”

  “I can’t help it if I have short-term memory loss,” Kara Parker shoots back with a smile. “Hi, who are you again?”

  “Your worst nightmare!”

  “That seems about right with that makeup job of yours.”

  And that’s how the evening progresses—a constant exchange of insults that makes everyone laugh out loud.

  “Girls, focus!” Bibi announces after about fifteen minutes of gossip and little skirmishes among the queens. Her face is all done, and she walks from one side of the room to the other, just waiting for the queens to wrap up before putting on her long blue dress. “Our friend is finally getting out of his shell, and that is reason for celebration!”

  She runs to the kitchen while everyone claps, then comes back with a giant box of wine.

  “Where did you get that from, Bibi?” I ask, my eyes wide at how huge it is.

  “I have secret places you wouldn’t believe,” she answers, winking again, and everyone laughs one more time.

  Bibi grabs some disposable cups from the kitchen and places them in a spot that’s not covered in makeup and fabrics, then starts pouring the cheap wine.

  “Girl, if you stain my dress with wine, I’ll kill you, cast a spell to bring you back, and then kill you all over again!” Nicolle grumbles, pulling her dress away from the table as Bibi hands each of the girls a cup.

  “I can’t believe you’re toasting to me getting out of my shell, which by the way, hasn’t happened yet,” I say with a smile, because it’s impossible to stay sad when all these wonderful people come together to whip out catty remarks.

  “I’m an incurable optimist, darling,” Bibi says, raising her cup. “A toast to being who we are, with all our faults and issues!”

  “A toast to Adore Delano!”

  “A toast to Sarah Jessica Parker!”

  “A toast to Madonna!”

  “A toast to us!” I say, because right now, that’s all I can think of being thankful for.

  I down the w
ine in one gulp and feel the liquid scratch my throat.

  “Holy crap, this wine sucks, doesn’t it?” Mad Madonna complains, coughing after she swallows it. And yet she grabs the box and pours herself another cup. “Why would you ruin our cute moment with this vinegar, Bibi?”

  +

  I think I had more wine than I should have.

  I definitely had more wine than I should have.

  The big disadvantage of having the queens over and helping them get ready for the show is that they always drink too much, but they somehow manage to maintain their shine and composure. Unlike me, who sees two of everything and feels all the liquid dancing in his belly, not to mention has an urgent need to pee.

  Or maybe I got too excited and everyone else knew when to stop.

  Yeah, that must be what happened.

  We call two taxis for the group from a company we all know and trust. As much as I hate to admit it, a news story starting with “Four drag queens and a drunk guy got into an unregistered cab” doesn’t always end well these days, and even though our place isn’t far from the club, wandering the streets of Rio at night with four tipsy friends isn’t exactly safe. But now we’re off to the club, and the world keeps turning.

  The taxi driver welcomes us with a grin and kisses on the cheeks, asking us how we’re doing and saying that, unfortunately, he can’t make it to the show tonight. Kara Parker says she’ll give him tickets for free and hugs him, but the driver says his boyfriend wouldn’t like that, which makes her step away with an unhappy look on her face.

  When we get there, the line to get in hasn’t formed yet, but there are a good number of people at the entrance, smiling, holding cups full of cheap wine and beer. Inside, multicolored lights are flashing, and the front door lets out some of the music that the acoustic walls try to muffle. Some panhandlers try to start conversations with people while hawkers try to make a quick buck selling gum, candy, and cigarettes.

  Bibi steps out of the car like a Hollywood star about to walk the red carpet. She holds both sides of her long dress and pulls them up to keep the dress from brushing the ground, revealing her gold sandals, but her body is covered with a coat so the dress won’t be seen ahead of time. People start looking right away, and she smiles. She loves being the center of attention, especially tonight, when she’s the main attraction.

 

‹ Prev