Where We Go From Here

by Lucas Rocha

  I look around and step back when I notice some people walking toward her to ask for autographs and pictures. Bibi is a bit of a celebrity on drag nights, which always scores her and her friends some free booze. I check my phone and notice my battery is about to die, since I forgot to recharge it.

  “Henrique!” I hear Bibi calling to me between the camera flashes and Instagram videos. “Are you all right?”

  I think she and everyone else has noticed that my alcohol level is a bit above average, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.

  “Sure!” I answer maybe a little too excitedly. “Everything is wonderful!”

  She realizes I’m splitting my attention between my phone (the battery has gone down) and looking around me in hopes of finding Victor’s blue hair and thin face, but she doesn’t say anything. I appreciate it when Bibi is discreet, especially because I know it’s a rare occurrence.

  “I’m going to the dressing room, my friend. If you need me”—she leads me to the entrance and points at a five-foot-tall girl, the tips of her hair dyed green, who smiles at everyone as she hands out a few VIP wristbands—“Rebecca will show you how to get there.”

  Bibi hands me a band and adjusts it around my wrist.

  “My God, Henrique, you’re such a stranger!” Rebecca says, pulling me in for a hug.

  “Rebeccaaaaaa,” I say, hugging her. “I looove you!”

  “Oh, gosh, you’re drunk.”

  I shrug. “Maybe I am, if you think half a gallon of cheap wine is enough to get someone drunk.” My smile widens, my eyes narrow, and Bibi rolls hers and ignores me. “But not enough to be embarrassing, because today is the day of our star, Bibi! I don’t want to be responsible for throwing up in the middle of the crowd and ruining her night.”

  “Very wise, Henrique.” Bibi kisses my cheeks and then whispers to Rebecca, “Take care of him, will you? Text me if anything happens.”

  “You got it, Bibi,” answers Rebecca. “You can go in whenever you’re ready, Henrique.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” I say when I see Bibi disappear in the club’s lights. “In a moment! I just need some”—I point to the vendor stalls—“some tequila!”

  I turn my back to her, stumbling, and bump into Mad Madonna, who steadies me and stops herself from cursing when she recognizes who it is. I kiss her hand to make up for it, then move forward in my search for more alcohol.

  I don’t know why I decided it was a good idea to get drunk tonight of all nights. What I do know is that there’s little thinking involved once you start drinking, because all your stupid ideas suddenly seem great, and the booze going down your throat doesn’t sting as bad.

  I breathe out through my mouth and order a shot of tequila from a woman who screams, “Three for ten!” and “We take credit cards!” I say yes, because I’m in no condition to do the math. She places three disposable cups on top of the Styrofoam container where she keeps the liquor, then hands me slices of lime and a packet of salt. I place the salt on the back of my hand, lick it, and down the three shots of tequila before sucking on the lime, which somehow tastes sweeter than the drink.

  Yeah, I guess I wasn’t right when I said the booze stops stinging as bad after a while.

  Still grimacing, I order a bottle of beer to wash away the sourness of the lime. I grab my wallet and pay her without bothering to check if the change she gave me is correct.

  I walk away, heading toward the stairs of a building near the entrance to the club, where a few people are sitting and talking. I find a corner for myself, put the beer bottle between my legs, and take the phone from my pocket again.

  Why is it that every stupid idea seems great when you’re drunk?

  My fingers find the messenger app automatically, where I check the last message I sent Victor, with the name of the club and time of the party. Suddenly, my feelings go from complete apathy to intense rage. It’s as if I’ve had an epiphany: Victor is being childish and ghosting me. Screw his fears and all the things he’s feeling. I’m tired of being the person who always needs to offer more than the other one is willing to give me. I’m tired of HIV being the main character in my relationships, and I’m tired of thinking I owe a sentimental debt to others. Fuck all of it and everyone!

  My movements are automatic: The bottle of beer going back and forth between my legs and my mouth, only half its cold contents flowing down my throat; a held-back burp that makes my eyes sting and my breath catch; my thumb pressing the button to record a voice message to Victor, the phone coming closer to my mouth; and now me speaking.

  “I thought you were different, Victor.” I feel my diaphragm rising suddenly with a hiccup. I cough, then keep talking. “But you’re just like everyone else. Just like Carlos. I thought we’d have a chance at being happy. You think it’s cool that I like you so much and I can’t be with you because of this crap? Because of your fear and your selfishness, when I know you like me, too? Because I know, man, even if you want to deny it: I saw it in your eyes. You’re scared, and I swear I tried to take that into account, but you know what? Fuck it! Fuck you and your fears. What about my fears? My selfishness? Do you think it’s easy for me to wake up every day and not think about this fucking virus? Because I think about it every day; it’s the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last I think about when I go to sleep. Maybe it is my true love, because it’s with me twenty-four hours a day, even after three years. I tell myself everything is okay, that I shouldn’t be thinking about it, but it’s the same as telling someone who’s hungry that they shouldn’t focus on being hungry, that it’ll go away soon. It’s inevitable. Because I know I have a right to be happy, but it’s so … so … frustrating to know that happiness is so close and this virus is a force field that doesn’t let me take another step forward.” I take a deep breath, trying to keep another hiccup at bay. “And that’s what I mean: I want to be happy, but I’m tired of begging for it. If you don’t want to set your prejudices aside, great, be happy with them. I’ll try to be happy as best I can, and when I make it, I want to look in your face and laugh. You know why? Because I’ll be happy, and you won’t make me miserable with your selfishness.”

  I let go of the record button and stare at the little bubble, the word delivered appearing underneath it. I’m satisfied with my speech. Victor needs to hear it, since he won’t show his face or answer my texts anymore. It’s the least he should know.

  I drink the last of my beer and try to get up way too quickly, tripping on myself and being helped by two female hands.

  “Whoa, careful there, buddy!” It’s a short girl, looking at me with mild annoyance. When she gets to my face, though, her expression changes, and she grins. “Hey! It’s you!”

  I take a step back and rub my eyes, frowning and staring at her. I don’t know this girl. She must be one of Bibi’s fans who saw me in a picture with her.

  “Sorry, but … do I know you?”

  “Oh, you don’t know me, but I know you!” She smiles triumphantly. “Very nice to meet you. My name is Sandra, and I’m here with a friend who knows you very well. Victor, look who I found!”

  I look back and see the blue-haired boy grabbing two beers from the woman who just sold me the three tequila shots.

  He smirks, and at the same time I stare at my phone screen.

  The voice message went through, and then the screen goes dark as my battery dies.

  Shit.

  IT’S A GIANT WHITE PILL, the size of an antibiotic for strep.

  I look at it in the light, turning it around in my fingers. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it got stuck sideways in my throat and I choked to death? Maybe not—definitely not—but I can’t stop thinking about the possibility and laughing morbidly at my reflection in the bedroom mirror.

  I’m ready for the party, and the Uber is on its way, but I continue to stare at the pill and wonder if it’s a good idea to take it tonight, right as I’m about to go out by myself to meet people I don’t know very well. I wonder if it might make me melancholy
or something, because the side effects include dizziness, negative thoughts, and nightmares. Nothing in there about hallucinations, so seeing a black-winged monster flying around the club shouldn’t be on my list of fears, but I still can’t help but think that right now might not be the best time to start the medication.

  But I also consider that it might be a good idea to take the first pill now, on a night when I won’t go straight to sleep. It might make my body send a message to the meds, like, “Hey, I don’t want to have nightmares!” or something. It also seems like a good idea to take it when I know I’ll drink and get dizzy from the alcohol anyway.

  I’m tired of weighing the outcomes in my head, so I just shove the pill into my mouth and go to the kitchen to find a glass of water. I take a long gulp and force the pill down to my stomach.

  Toward the virus.

  +

  I’m not used to going out in Rio de Janeiro at night. I’d much rather stay in bed watching a show or reading a book, even though everyone tells me it’s an antisocial thing to do and that I’ll end up alone surrounded by cats and books. It’s comfortable, fun, peaceful, and quiet. But today I don’t want quiet, because I know it would drive me wild. It would make me think about things I don’t want to think about, make me brood over the past and become sad, and I don’t want to go through that tonight, not now that the meds can amplify my feelings.

  The car snakes through the streets toward downtown Rio. The driver asks me if I want any candy, if the temperature is okay, and if I want to listen to any particular radio station. My curt replies stop him from trying to make more small talk, which makes me less annoyed with his previous attempts. I stare out the window, watching the lights pass quickly by my eyes.

  I get out of the car and head to the club, certain it will be a good night out. Maybe I won’t find either of the guys, but I still think it’ll be fun to see the drag queens performing onstage. I’ve never been to this club before, but based on the ads Henrique sent me and his own reviews of the songs they play here, I’m sure I’ll have a great time.

  The first thing I notice is that this is definitely not the kind of club the guys from my economics class drag me to every once in a while. All the colorful hair, baggy clothes, and glitter assure me that this is a different kind of place. I see tall women, and it takes me a moment to realize they’re men wearing makeup; I see boys hugging other boys and girls hugging other girls, and I can’t find anyone judging them, not even the panhandlers outside or the vendors in the booths near the entrance.

  There’s a small line to get in, bouncers checking IDs, and people drinking and smoking. Some of them take photos with drag queens, who smile, sneer, and throw out catchphrases.

  I take out my phone and text Henrique to let him know I’m here. I know he invited me, but I don’t know if he’s already here. I look around, searching for familiar faces, but find none. I shrug and turn to one of the ladies in a booth to get a beer, and I can feel that my senses are more acute. I think the first of the side effects is starting to show—in this case, dizziness.

  I lean against a wall, take a sip of the beer, and close my eyes, trying to force things back to their rightful places. It’s as if someone pressed the fast-forward button on a movie and everything has started happening way too quickly. I feel the sole of my foot getting warm, and a heat that’s not actual heat takes over my body. I feel hot, but I’m not sweating. It’s a bizarre feeling, at the same time bothersome and bearable.

  Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to take the pill before going out, but I don’t want to go back home. I take a deep breath, look ahead of me, and stare at the people speeding by, laughing without a care in the world. I start wondering if any of them are faking it, like I am, pretending everything is all right. If they are laughing just out of peer pressure, because it’s easier than locking yourself up in your bedroom to worry over the bad stuff.

  I look at my phone and see Henrique hasn’t replied. I shrug, finish my beer, and decide to get in line. I hear a Lady Gaga song playing and everyone singing along. Still a bit dizzy, I lean on a barricade so I won’t stumble into anybody, then pay for my ticket and go inside.

  It’s as if I’ve entered a psychedelic dream full of strobe lights. The floor vibrates with the bass, and people walk in every direction in search of alcohol, the bathroom, or friends. A DJ is onstage wearing headphones, his hands swift on the sound board, mixing and making the transition from one track to the next. When he changes the song, everyone yells excitedly and starts singing along.

  It occurs to me that it’s going to be a little hard to find Henrique in this big place with all these people, but the moment I see three people dancing under a staircase, I immediately recognize Victor’s blue hair and startling height, as well as Henrique’s red hair and pale skin; next to them is a girl wearing a black outfit with a red ribbon in her hair.

  “HI!” I scream over the music, and Henrique flashes a smile at the sight of me. He gives me a hug, and I feel his body propping itself against mine, which leads me to believe he’s already drunk. I wave to Victor when Henrique lets go, and he hugs me. The girl I haven’t met waves shyly, but when she realizes I’m with the group, she hugs me, too.

  Everyone smells great, even Henrique, even after his cologne got mixed with sweat and the alcohol I can smell on his breath.

  “IAN!” Henrique bellows. “THIS IS SANDRA, AND I GUESS YOU’VE ALREADY MET VICTOR!”

  Before I can get used to the loud music or make any sort of comment about the red ribbon in Sandra’s hair or Victor’s totally out-of-place outfit, Henrique drags me by the arm with a wide—maybe too wide—smile and yells, “I NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM, WHY DON’T YOU COME WITH ME?”

  I try to stammer an answer, looking from him to Victor and Sandra, but before I can come up with anything, he pulls me with him, leaving a dumbfounded look on their faces and mine.

  We cross the sea of people and manage to go up the stairs toward the bathrooms on the second floor, where there aren’t as many people. Henrique pulls me inside by the hand and closes the door, and I find myself squeezed against him in a stall meant for one person. What is he doing? My God, he’s not expecting we’ll … stay in here together, right?

  “Dude, I screwed up.” He runs his hands over his sweaty face and stares at me, and I have no idea what he’s talking about.

  “Why did you lock us into a bathroom stall, Henrique? You realize the bouncers are going to throw us out of this party if they catch us, right?”

  “Chill out, we’re not doing anything and aren’t going to, and— That’s not the point!”

  “Of course it is! If Victor comes looking for you and sees you locked in here with someone else, what do you think is gonna go through his mind?”

  Henrique stares at me, and it feels like one of those cartoon scenes where the character discovers something obvious that he wasn’t able to realize by himself.

  “You’re right, so I gotta be quick.” He shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I sent Victor a voice message. It’s bad. Really bad.”

  “Did he listen to it yet?”

  “Not yet. At least I don’t think so. If he had, he wouldn’t be here.”

  Bad Luck must be both our middle names. “But what did you say in it?”

  Henrique summarizes the content in incoherent sentences, but I get the gist.

  “Ah” is all I can say.

  “Yeah. Ah. And that’s why you need to help me. I need you to delete the message from his phone before he can listen to it.”

  “What? How do you expect me to do that?”

  “I don’t know, man, I don’t know! I’m out of options here, Ian, and I really like him, but I’m so … frustrated and drunk and— Shit, he’s going to listen to it and think I don’t like him anymore, and then everything will be over.”

  Henrique unlocks the door, and we leave the stall under the judgmental eyes of a guy waiting in line. I have no idea what to do with myself, so I stare at the floo
r. When we start walking down the stairs to the main dance floor, I feel the floor give way again, then grab Henrique’s shoulders.

  If a fun evening to take my mind away from the bad stuff was what I wanted, I definitely got it.

  Henrique stumbles on his own feet, and the only reason he doesn’t tumble all the way down the stairs is because he’s holding on to the handrail. I follow him, also holding on for dear life. I still haven’t had a single beer inside the club, but it’s as if I’ve just finished my eighth can. It’s not quite the same as being drunk: Things pass by faster, but I can still hold on to my memories and am very well aware of what I’m doing. I just feel dizzy, really dizzy, and my body temperature is higher than usual, but my consciousness is still intact.

  Henrique, on the other hand, is out of his mind, but he notices I’m searching for support and following his steps.

  “Are you drunk?” he asks. “Great. So now one drunk guy will try to help another drunk guy not screw himself. That’s really great!”

  “I’m not drunk!” I retort, and his expression says that’s exactly the answer he’d expect from a drunk guy. “I got started on the meds today! I’m just dizzy.”

  It’s bizarre to say it openly and naturally. The music is so loud I had to scream it, but I’m not afraid someone will hear me.

  Henrique freezes and looks me in the eye. He props me against a wall and leans on my shoulder.

  Great. Now Victor is going to see us, and I’m certain he’ll think we’re kissing.

  “Are you serious?” He stares at me, and he seems almost sober now. “Shit, it’s true!”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “No, it’s just …” He takes a deep breath and tries to organize his thoughts. “I invited you tonight so you could get some distraction, keep your mind out of trouble. And then the first thing I do is get you involved in my own problems. That’s not a great look for a friend.”