by Rick R. Reed
“Oh no! I wont let you say that. We came down here so you could get away from the drugs.” Dan gave Mark a wry smile. “Look at how well thats worked out.”
“But I dont even have a job. How will I survive?”
“Youre a grown man, sweetheart. A man with an education and experience. Youll figure it out. And in case you havent noticed, I dont have a job either.”
“Just give me a week,” Mark spoke rapidly. “Give me a week to prove to you that Ill get clean. If I slip any time during that week, or any time after that even, then you can kick my sorry ass to the curb. Okay?”
Marks smile, appeasing, almost melted Dans heart.
Almost.
“No. I want you out by tomorrow. You can sleep on the couch tonight.”
Dan went into the bedroom and, with shaking hands, softly closed the door.
“Fucker! I hate you!” Something crashed against the door, glass shattered.
Dan lay down on the bed and curled into a ball. Would sleep ever come?
Chapter Eight
GRAY light filtered in between the mini-blind slats, dingy. Thunder rumbled and Dan heard the rhythmic patter of rain against the glass. Dan opened his eyes to a dim room, surprised he had slept. The events of the night before filtered in and he recalled, with pain, the things he had said to Mark. Last night had been a life-changer.
How could he have fallen asleep? With all that had occurred? He should have spent the night tossing and turning, restless, and emotionally traumatized. Yet, he had slumbered, and, it seemed, deeply. He remembered no dreams.
The apartment, aside from the sound of the downpour outside, was quiet. He wondered if Mark still slept on the couch. It would be an awkward morning, and Dan didnt know if he could abide another round of begging from his boyfriend, wasnt sure he still had the fortitude as Nancy Reagan had once proclaimed, to just say no.
Dan sat up in bed and thought the best course of action would be to get up, dress quickly, and get out of here for the day. Perhaps he could head over to Brandon and see Adam again. He knew Adam would be interested in what he had done, knew that he had a friend waiting for him.
And if Adam wasnt around, or the timing wasnt convenient, there were other ways Dan could spend the day. He could take in a movie, go to the zoo. If the rain stopped, miles of shoreline awaited him. Hell, he could even head up to Busch Gardens and ride roller coasters all day, just to take his mind off his new and single life.
Whatever he did, he knew it would be best to clear out and let Mark pack up his things alone. The silence between them that Dan knew would permeate the little apartment would be almost unbearable.
Dan rummaged around in the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, his Nikes. He threw swimming trunks into a beach bag just in case the weather turned.
Summoning up some courage, he opened the bedroom door, telling himself to just be strong and to leave within five minutes no matter what Mark said, no matter what argument he attempted.
Maybe he would be lucky and he could slip out without waking Mark. How early was it, anyway? He glanced at the clock and saw that it was only a little after nine.
He walked quietly into the living room, expecting to see Marks form covering the couch. Dan remembered him coming into the bedroom in the middle of the night and had assumed he was getting bedding. Dan had been half asleep and the memory was a blur.
Now the couch was empty.
In fact, one glance around the little apartment told Dan the whole place was empty. During the night, Mark must have cleaned. The coffee table was devoid of everything save for a TV Guide and a glass candy dish that had belonged to Dans grandmother. The couch was pristine, the throw pillows plumped and arranged just so. Dan looked to the kitchen, where the counters were bare, the stainless steel sink gleamed, and the few dishes that had been recently used sat in the drainer.
The vertical blinds to their sliding glass door were open to the gray rainy day. Lightning flashed.
Dan hurried back into the bedroom, examined the closet more closely and saw what he had missed when he had gotten together his own clothes for the day—all of Marks clothes were gone, along with the duffel bag on rollers he used for traveling.
He had done all of this while Dan slept. God, I must have been exhausted, Dan thought, and then realized it made sense. Emotional trauma can take a lot out of a person. Sleep can sometimes be a necessary physical respite.
Dan was amazed that Mark had cleaned their whole place, packed his things, and moved out, all before he even realized it.
He sat on the edge of the bed, a little stunned, and realized he was almost disappointed Mark wasnt there. As much as hed dreaded having to face him this morning, it simply seemed odd not to have him there.
There was no closure.
Where had Mark gone?
Dan got up and walked to the front door, went outside, barefoot, into the rain. He looked up and down the complex parking lot, but Marks Mustang was gone.
Soaking wet, he returned slowly to the apartment, feeling a vague emptiness and an urge to cry.
Isnt this what you wanted? Isnt it easier this way? He made a quiet exit, no fuss, no scenes, no tears or recriminations. Wasnt that thoughtful of him?
Dan went into the bathroom, stripped out of his wet clothes, and toweled himself off. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he had not eaten anything for a good twenty-four hours.
Yet the thought of food, at the moment, was nauseating.
Dan returned to the living room and plopped down on the couch, with only a towel around his waist, and stared out at the rain, which poured so hard it almost obscured the glass of the sliding doors.
Where was Mark? Was he safe? Had he left calmly? Or did he leave feeling hurt and rejected, his belief confirmed once again that someone didnt want him?
Stop thinking that way. Theres some psychological lingo for what you were doing with Mark—you were enabling him and you know it. You cant worry about him. The fact that he took his clothes and his car with him shows hes not doing anything rash, doesnt it? Maybe he went back to Chicago.
Wherever he went, hes no longer your concern.
Dan shook his head. He was not able to think that way. He wasnt that callous. He loved Mark, still loved him, and it was natural to worry that he was all right. The fact that Mark had betrayed him, sneaked around behind his back, and in the process gotten himself arrested, curiously did not change the fact that Dan loved him.
He got up and paced. It was in the act of pacing that he saw the little blue envelope on top of their computer desk in the dining room. It lay beneath a seed packet of Forget-Me-Nots. Oh Mark, youre so obvious. In spite of himself, Dan laughed and snatched up the envelope. He took it into the living room, sat down, and opened it. He took a breath before beginning to read.
Dear Dan, I have spent a sleepless night… for many reasons. Yes, coke will do that to you. But I have also been sleepless because I have been thinking about you, about me, about us.
In the wee small hours of the morning, as the old song goes, I realized, Dan, you were right. I have no one to blame for the mess I find myself in but myself. And I have no reason to expect you to stick around and clean up after me, time and time again.
If Im going to get better, I have to do it myself.
So, thats what Im going to try to do. I dont know how. I dont know where. I really dont know who to turn to, but Ill figure it out. Its all on me.
I see now that thats the way it has to be.
By now, you probably realized I packed up some of my clothes, cleaned out my toiletries from the bathroom, and attempted to leave you with a clean apartment. It was my way of clearing my head, but also of clearing a new space for you.
I cried the whole time I did it. I say that not because I want to play on your sympathy or because I want you to feel sorry for me, but because theres a tiny part of me that hopes that, if I can get myself clean, that youll take me back. Its the carrot Im dangling in front of myself.
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Dan stopped reading, pausing to brush the tears off his cheeks and to get up and grab some toilet paper to blow his nose. He returned to the couch, too upset to analyze how he felt about what Mark expressed in the letter, which he had to admit, was quite eloquent for someone who had been high on coke all day and awake all night.
He continued reading. Dont worry. I am the first to admit that Im big on denial and afraid of conflict. You and I are the same that way. But I dont have any illusions about you taking me back, not after the way Ive royally fucked things up… one too many times. But a guy can hope, cant he?
Anyway, now comes the hard part of the letter to write… and the part that I am certain will probably ensure youll never want to see or hear from me again.
Dan lowered the paper, staring out at the damp day, noticing the sun beginning to break through the clouds, and how it caused steam to rise from the walkway fronting their apartment.
He didnt know if he wanted to continue reading. Then dont. Theres no law that says you cant just get up and throw this letter in the trash. Spare yourself. Or if youre worried that you might weaken and pull it out of the trash later, theres nothing to stop you from putting it in the sink and lighting it with a match and watching as it goes from stationery to ash.
No, I have to see it through. He forced himself to focus on Marks handwriting once more. I have used coke many times behind your back. That much, you probably figured out. But the thing you might not know is that during those binges, I sometimes got so high that I sought sexual release in the arms of strangers.
Dan felt a jolt, like a shot of adrenaline straight to his heart. I was never with anyone I knew. I never had what you might call an affair. But I did go to the baths when we were in Chicago. I did get and give blow jobs in the parks along the lakefront there. It was all anonymous. Meaningless. None of it meant a thing, or changed the fact that I loved you so much, Dan. Yet I was heading down that same road here in Tampa, which is how I ended up on the wrong side of the law yesterday.
All I can say in my defense is that when youre high on coke, you become someone else. Someone selfish; someone who doesnt give a damn about anything but pleasure.
Again—it doesnt mean I didnt love you.
I do. I always will.
Dan shook his head, wanting to fling the letter, like a snake that had bitten him, to the floor. But he soldiered on.
Im not telling you this to hurt you. God, no. But—oh God I hate to say this—but because Im afraid.
Dan closed his eyes, knowing what was coming and wondering why he hadnt already thought of it. Im afraid that I might have picked something up along the way. God forbid it was HIV, but there are other things out there that you should probably get checked for. I wasnt always safe. Coke throws caution out the window, right along with inhibitions.
So get yourself tested. I havent had any symptoms of anything, but I thought to myself, if I really loved you, I needed to share this with you. So thats what Im doing.
Dan stared out at the day as it continued to brighten. We didnt play safe. I stupidly thought we were monogamous. Dan thought of all the times he had fucked Mark, and only at the very start of their relationship, two years ago, were condoms involved. There were even the rare, drunken times when they switched roles, and Dan shuddered, a now-ghastly image of Mark rising up in his head: Mark above him, eyes scrunched up in ecstasy as he shot his seed deep inside Dan.
Oh Good God, please no…. Now that I have probably thoroughly ruined everything, I will say good-bye. I still have the insane hope that one day well be able to put this darkness behind us, but the sane part of me knows thats probably not going to happen.
I love you, Dan. I always will. And I regret and am deeply sorry for hurting you. If I could take back what Ive done, I would. Dan set the letter down on the coffee table.
He felt a curious mixture of emotions. Numbness was foremost, an almost deadness of emotion. Yet underneath that shield, which was probably preventing him from doing something that would alarm the neighbors—like screaming, or crying, or laughing hysterically—there were other feelings. Dread. Rage. Icy fingers of chill and nausea waited to accost him.
My God, what if Im infected? What if its already too late?
He flashed on a long stretch of Florida two-lane highway and imagined himself pulling the wheel sharply to the left into the path of an approaching semi.
Dont be stupid. Youll get yourself tested and then you can decide how to deal with it. Everything is probably okay.
A sickening dread in his gut told him otherwise.
He would have to go on Monday, find the health department and get himself tested—for everything: herpes, the clap, syphilis, chlamydia, HIV. There was some small and very bitter reassurance in the fact that all but two of those maladies could be cured. And only one was fatal.
Things were looking good!
Dan sat for a long time in the quiet apartment, simply staring out at the day as it heated up and became beautiful, the clouds clearing, the sun throwing down a relentless, overly cheerful swath of bright.
After a while, he thought he needed to talk to someone about all that had happened in the past twenty-four hours. There was really only one person who would understand, and Dan would be damned if hed let some silly notion of reversing their roles stop him from calling and pouring out his heart.
He needed comfort. Succor.
He needed Adam.
Dan went to the desk and found the number, picked up the cordless, and punched in the numbers. As he listened to the ringing, he hoped he didnt get their stupid answering machine again. He wasnt in the mood for the message, which had some Katherine Hepburn impersonator going on about leaving a message for the “sake of anthropology” or something.
He wasnt in the mood for much of anything other than confiding in Adam, even getting some of his sarcasm as a balm on his wounded soul. It might be good to even laugh at this horrible and horror-filled situation. Only one person could make him laugh right now.
But the phone on the other end just rang and rang. Not only was there no answer, there was no answering machine.
“Come on, pick up,” Dan whispered, pacing.
He must have let the phone ring twenty times before he disconnected.
He continued to call throughout the day, in between bouts of tears, what was supposed to be an oblivion-inducing dip in the pool, throwing out Marks collection of heavy metal cassettes (spite), and simply feeling sorry for himself.
But no one ever answered. Not even the machine.
Dan wondered why.
As day faded into dusk, he collapsed in front of the TV with a beer, hoping that, tomorrow, he would have better luck reaching Adam.
What the fuck was going on anyway?
Chapter Nine
SECOND verse, same as the first. Dan had begun trying to call Adam early in the morning. At first, he would let an hour or so pass before trying again. Then, a half hour, then fifteen minutes.
When he was calling his buddys house in Brandon every ten minutes and still coming up with only endless, unanswered ringing, Dan realized he needed to do something else. The image he had of the phone ringing in an empty house frightened him, and although it wasnt a pleasant reaction, it did succeed in taking his mind off his own troubles for a while.
What was going on? Why hadnt Adam, or even Sullivan, answered the phone now for a second day? Dans first call had been early in the morning, early enough that Sullivan and Adam should have both been at home.
And why no answering machine? Something about all of this just didnt smell right. FIRST thing Monday morning, Dan sat down at his desk, stomach churning, and located the phone number for the Tampa AIDS Alliance. He made the call, hoping to talk to Duncan Boechler, the director of the Buddy Program. Maybe he would know something. Plus, part of their training had been to notify the TAA if there was something amiss.
This, Dan thought, was “something amiss.”
“Tampa AIDS Alliance. This is Den
ise, how may I help you?” Dan explained who he was and his association with the
organization and asked if he could speak to Duncan.
“Hes not here right now. Hell be coming in for his volunteer
shift this afternoon, though. Would you like to leave a message?” Dan debated mentally whether it would be better to simply leave
a message or wait to talk to Duncan live. In the end, he said, “Yeah.
Would you just tell him my buddy, Adam Schmidt, doesnt seem to
be around? I know Im probably just being paranoid, but usually
someone at his house answers the phone when I call. If not, I at least
get a machine. But its been nothing for two days.”
“Ill be sure he gets the message.”
Dan hung up and felt too agitated to sit still. He ate a half-black
banana from a bowl on the counter just to put something in his
stomach and threw on some board shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops, and
headed out.
As he drove to Brandon, he thought how, within the last fortyeight hours, everyone in his life that meant anything to him was gone.
He was in a strange state, with no boyfriend, no buddy, and no
friends. He had some acquaintances—Duncan was one—but he
realized, with alarm, there was no one to really call here in Tampa
with whom he could share his turmoil.
He drove too fast, he knew, and arrived in front of the little
stucco house that Adam and Sullivan shared in record time. He got
out of the car quickly and marched up to the front door, hoping all of
this was nothing and that either Sullivan or Adam, or both, would
open the door and all of this would have been due to a simple
misunderstanding. The answering machine got unplugged or
something….
Dan rang the doorbell. Waited. Rang again. Knocked. Waited.
Pounded. “Adam? Sullivan? Anyone?” he called out. None of this felt
right. Worried, he made a circuit around the house, peering in
windows at empty rooms. He crept into the fenced backyard and