The dance of the not yet dearly departed

“So let’s move to the beat, like we know that it’s over..”
The Cure, “Fascination Street.”

“..And I could hear the music tear, tearing through my bones..”
The Lo-Fidelity All Stars, “Nightime Story”

While living in Missouri, I knew very few people with HIV or AIDS. In Key West, quite the opposite held true. A lot, sometimes A Lot, of people known, liked, and disliked, were Positive. Positively positive. Due to this exposure, my opinions and perspective concerning HIV-related matters changed, as of course they would have to.

1. October 1993.Going out seemed almost mandatory in Key West. I knew of many, many people who went out every night, myself included. My roommates were bartenders at the Copa, the biggest club on the island. With capacity of 1200, eight bars, and a huge dance floor, everyone went to the Copa. Even those “too cool for school” made occasional appearances. It was fun, even when it was boring, and those who didn’t outwardly enjoy it still secretly loved it.

The Copa, before it was The Copa/the club, was an adult movie theater that had the distinction of running the Linda Lovelace/Harry Reems movie “Deep Throat” more than any other theater in the country. Because both my roommates worked there (The third had not yet arrived), admission and drinks were usually free. The club could be very busy and almost claustrophobic, or dead, cavernous and empty, the bartenders staring at each other from opposite ends of the dance floor. The music never conceded, even for a minute, that no one was dancing. But when there were crowds of people, it was, either good or bad and if not memorable, at least enough excitement to get one through the night.

Personally, I loved it. Much more than I’d ever let on, but make no mistake, I completely dug going out. The people mulled around the club, on the dance floor, some fabulous, some not. There were Europeans, Israelis, gay rednecks, New Yorkers. People came from all over the world to play in Key West and to dance at the Copa. And the party went on almost every night. The mix in dynamics, the music, the alcohol, and the chance to get laid; it was all there. Yeah, The Copa was a lot of fun.

But then, I was made aware of my immediate surroundings, and my whole perspective changed.

Like I mentioned earlier, I had not, in Missouri, met very many people with HIV or AIDS, so my opinions were much different than they are now. HIV/AIDS was an abstraction, not really in my reality, though well aware that now that I was gay, my name was now High Risk Statistic. No rational considerations about the implications of contracting HIV or any AIDS related diseases, the minutiae of day-to-day life, or anything of this nature were made. My reactions to the disease were born out of fear of this unknown killer, its inevitability because I was gay, the humiliation of a slow and painful death, and other scenarios of horror my mind could conjure.

Because I didn’t know any better. So exposure to lots of people with HIV and AIDS, who they are, how they are, how they live, should calm my feelings of anxiety about possibly contracting and dying with it, right? Well, it didn’t. Not at first anyway..

There was an AIDS benefit, yet another one, at the Copa that Thursday night. My roommates were bartending that night. I had to work until 11 at the clothing store, so the benefit was going strong when I arrived. I went to Ben’s bar for my first drink. He told me that another bartender had told him that almost everyone at this benefit was HIV positive. Looking around. I knew a lot of these people already, at least by sight. There were about 200 people, or so, there that night. Almost everyone there… almost…every…one… Oh…no…

I would get very drunk or stoned during this period of time, well, because I could. Dancing on the floor, alone. Almost in a trance, internally flipping out over the apparitions of the ghosts and those not quite dead yet, dancing all around me. Some were grotesques, some pathetic and sad, decayed and decaying, beckoning to me, allowing a glimpse of my imminent, inevitable future. A slow, eventual death was to be my fate, too. This recurring vision occurred fairly often at first, but only for a short period of time, maybe two months or so.

2. Rick

“Three O’ clock in the morning,It’s quiet and there’s no one around,Just the bang and clatter As an Angel hits the ground…”
U2, “Stay (Faraway, So Close!)”

“Love, in our life, is just too valuable, oh to feel for even a second without it. But life without death is just impossible, oh to realize something’s ending within us… Feeling yourself disintegrate…”
The Flaming Lips, “Feeling yourself disintegrate.”

He was a good boy. Actually, Rick was a man. A good man, he was.

I frequently ate lunch at Duds and Suds while working at the graphic design studio. Duds and Suds was a Laundromat/Café/Bar across the street from work, with ancient washers and dryers in the laundry area, some tables, chairs, and a sofa outside, and an 8 - 10 seat café inside. And then there was Rick, the owner. Rick was why I kept coming back.

He had black hair, maybe 5’8”, cheerful warm brown eyes, lots of energy, and classic good looks of the Italian variety. Rick was nice to look at, and comfortable to be around. He would give me a soda sometimes, or buy my meal entirely, talking all the while, allowing me to push aside everyday tensions, of which there were many, and relax for a brief time. I really liked Rick.

He would come visit me when I was bartending, dancing his way through the crowd, bobbing and weaving, smiling, his head doing its own little dance, independent, yet in conjunction with the movements of his body. Then, there he’d be, standing in front of me, smiling. He’s order a beer, chat a little bit, dance around in one place, mimicking the crowd from his post, then tell me he was going home to eat pasta. Then he would say goodnight, and leave. Even his consistency was cool. He had a beautiful smile, and smiled all the time. I always enjoyed his visits, those too-abbreviated bursts of energy, enough positive feeling to sustain me through the rest of my shift.

I wish I could have known him better.

It was late February 1994. The day was beautiful. I came in on lunch break, high as shit, and there he was, behind the counter, just like any other day. I asked for my usual, black beans and rice with Cuban bread, and sat down at the crowded bar, which sat eight, tuned into the music playing, acknowledged an acquaintance a few seats down, and began talking with Rick. Typical “hi-howyadoin-howsyerday” talk, idle chat, nice day, ya ya… but today, Rick seemed off.

He was alternately distant and/or nervous, not acting right. His behavior was worrisome. I asked if he was ok, and he said yeah, that he just wasn’t feeling too well, nothing big. And that was the end of the conversation. Soon my lunch was ready, and I ate while Rick cooked, took orders, and talked with several patrons at once, like he normally did. So ok, I’ll see you later.

The next day he was out sick. The vibe was weird around the counter. The woman cooking was visibly concerned but didn’t give too many details. She kept busy during my stay, nervously completing each order as it came. Rick was still sick the next day, and then, into the following week. The weirdness and worry built daily. And then, Rick came back.

For the first time I’d seen, Rick wasn’t cooking behind the counter. He was sitting outside in the sun, posed in such a manner of one who has little leisure time experience. He was rigidly relaxed, not fully knowing how to let go. He looked distant and pre-occupied. I rushed over, excited to see him. The fear in his eyes when his met mine, his expression as it registers my shock of recognition is what I saw. He was scared. I didn’t know he was sick with AIDS, not until then. He looked like he needed to be alone, so after a few awkward minutes, I went back to work, leaving him outside, in the sun, with his many thoughts.

He was gone again the next day. He was in the hospital this time, and really sick. I couldn’t sleep between jobs. I told the bouncer at the Saloon about Rick and how I knew he was sick and thought he might die. The bouncer got angry with me. “That’s a terrible thing to say!” he said. I think he assumed that I was retelling this fear to whomever I might see, and preceded to jump me for talking shit about sick people. But he had misunderstood. This piece of information could not be spread around lightly. He was scared and he was sick. I saw his eyes. This wonderful person was afraid for his life. I was scared for him.

He died a couple of days later, from spinal meningitis. Slipping into a coma, slipping into the crowd, his head bobbing, fading, receding by various people and out the door, his smile still emanating through the back of his head. And then he was gone. I cried for Rick. This person not really known had a major impact on me, even though our association was short.

Over the course of the next year, I met many more people who were positive or who had sero-converted to AIDS. All had different circumstances, all were in various stages of acceptance or deterioration or progress, fighting or sliding, courageous or weak, angry, resigned, optimistic, all taking everything one day at a time. Buff and obese, smokers, non-smokers, literate, not so bright, pretty, plain, rich or not, the disease doesn’t really concern itself with such matters.

3. Denver, Colorado, early 2000

Over the last several years or so, I have worried less and less about the specter of dying with AIDS. Not because there haven’t been any major advances in the race for the cure, because there has not. Some prominent AIDS researcher on Headline News just said something to the effect that there would be no cure during our lifetime. There have been advances in patient quality of life and new treatments making the disease more bearable for those infected, but the overall picture still looks bleak.

I think it’s more the understanding and acceptance of knowing AIDS is just another way to die. Personally, I’m more concerned with the possibility of a heart attack or stroke, given my preference for cigarettes and bong hits. Like murder and emphysema, car wrecks and cancer, AIDS is a peril here in our modern existence, the price of living when we do. Much like other plagues of the past.


I have no symptoms, feel great, and see no reason to get tested anytime soon. Which is better than the overwhelming fear I’ve felt thinking about AIDS in the past. Yeah, I’m still scared of knowing, but much less so than before. And, maybe in the future, not scared at all. So maybe you still think I’m living in denial about getting tested. Ok, I am. But for now, I still have my health insurance.

2000