After work

“When I first moved here, I promised myself I’d write every day and be disciplined about it. I’ve written twice.” He said, passing me the still-lit pipe. “It’s just…so much has happened I a short time, and it’s too much to process all at once. I have to just step back and just, take it all in.”

“Yeah,” I say. That sounds familiar. I exhale pot smoke and shift into fourth. We are driving east on Colfax Avenue, in _____’s Isuzu Trooper, toward his house. I must, too, stop, step back, take everything in, and try not to leave anything out. Out of place. Every step, every acquaintance, every action; its all very important to remember now.

It’s January of 1998, in Denver, Colorado. I have begun to equate my progressive emotional states with physical localities in which they have occurred. Key West equals devastating excess coupled with crippling manic depression and mental imbalance. Saint Louis equals isolation and ultimately, a greater sense of self and self worth. Hopefully, Denver will allow me the opportunity to grow, write, and progress.

Scott is a writer, too. We wait tables at the same restaurant, yet another in a growing list of restaurants of my employ. We talk and agree on a variety of subjects. We are both having internal discipline problems. He is handsome, and lets almost no one know that he is intelligent, not to mention a writer.

Denver, 1998

Flying into what was, in the dream, Key West, from an unknown location, some time in the future. The terrain was nothing close to the island in reality, as it was hilly and steep and curvy, closer geographically to the Ozarks. There were tropical plants, blooming varieties of flowers, and various types of other vegetation not indigenous to the area. Palms were next to trees whose leaves were the reds and gold of fall season.

From the plane, through the terminal..

I got on a bus. A friend from St. Louis was driving. She was also the tour guide for the shuttle. As she pointed and recited anecdotes in her Turkish-inflected English, I wondered how she ended up here, her vast knowledge and potential unrealized, like myself.

A midsummer night’s dream 1998

I dreamt this cartoon image, of a person’s mind, in which row after row of roses were blooming, continually, in rhythm, pulsing quickly, manufacturing colors, an overwhelming visual. Flowing and graceful, everything is b e au ti ful. Diffused, glowing colors, born almost textured, not quite physically tangible, the manifest of opiates.

Rows and rows of peace.

..And I dreamed of the homeless man dreaming of the roses, sleeping on a single mattress, in an alleyway, next to the Dumpster. No pillow, no sheets. A hot night, the space between life and death’s release.

So very far from his home.

In his dream, he smiles.

Friday night, Colfax Avenue, Denver, CO, 1998

The homeless man stepped on the crowded bus. The front of the bus erupted when his smell hit. That wall of…shitsmell. Truly unbelievable, and so immediate!

“Don’t let him on! Don’t let him on!” They yelled at the driver, who too, was visibly repulsed, yet did anyway. I’d never come close to a smell this bad. This pathetic fuckin’ guy walking around, living like this, utterly, completely, a pariah. What an awful, terrible life he must have.

His hair was matted, and his clothes had taken a dirt brown tint. He was holding two boxes. He was smiling in a way denoting confusion; unsure of what was happening, unsure of another course other than getting on the bus. He wore an absent smile for those yelling at and because of him.

People were yelling and moving away from him, from the smell, as he smiled that innocent half-smile. So fucking humiliating-he had no idea. Way too painful-gotta get away. I had to get off.

Walking down Colfax became much heavier. That poor wretch. I watched the bus continue its slow, westerly progress. The guy on the bench to my left turned all the way around to stare as I walked by John Elway’s Auto Nation. It was after 11:00 p.m. and the temperature still hovered near 90, sunrise still many hours away.

High ideal

“…And you are, not quite like all the rest…”
Ultra Vivid Scene, “Extra-Ordinary.”

Would you be my muse?

You wouldn’t have to do too much; there’s not a lot to do. Just be you. Let me look at and listen to you. Then, later, I’ll think about you and that experience. Then, maybe, I’ll write something, or make something, or someday, sculpt something beautiful, my inspiration born from the knowledge of your acquaintance.

How about it, would you be interested?

Does your smile count as a yes?

For..

It must be amazing to stand next to, or across from, the one you might just be with, possibly, for the rest of your life. The thoughts you must think! The chorus runs through my head from time to time, “How do I know you feel it? How do I know it’s true?”

But that question is answered by the look in your eyes, from across the room, as your lips upturn into a smile that throws its warmth in my direction, bathing me in you. And then, there you are, standing next to me, smiling, just like I wished only seconds before.

Quote from the Blue Nile, “Downtown lights.”

In the past…into the past

“…Life is overwhelming; heavy is the head that wears the crown.”
Limp Bizkit, “Re-arranged.”

His father, whose high position and esteem allowed him the disciplined restraint to cloak his disappointment, instructed them, once again, to retrieve his son from whatever mire mired him at the moment. And they did, pulling him out of stables and taverns and ditches, wallowing in filth, or from the arms of his many lovers, and from fights. They would clean him up and sober him up or put him to bed and force him to eat. Then everything was better, again, for the meantime.

The cycle would continue then, again, and the father became increasingly depressed, consumed by the notion that he was the cause of his beloved son’s sadness…his ways. And he wondered what he did or said that generated such pain. But in reality, this was not at all the case. The son in fact, agonized over the disappointment and difficulty he caused his father, adding more to his burden. His problems he carried squarely on his shoulders as he sank deeper and more firmly into his own design.

In time, there was nothing to do. All the man’s power, his influence, was not enough to save his most loved son. He had loved his father so very much. But he was scared to be the king.

The five hurricanesThe five hurricanes.

In Key West, so the story goes, “El Finito” is the final hurricane, the massive tempest that erases the island, leaving nothing behind.

People who live on the coasts of oceans have always lived under the specter of the water turning on them, their provider, without warning, becoming their enemy.

St. Louis, MO, early June 1996.

She was trying to wake me. Evidently, I had woken her. “What’s wrong?” She said. “Why are you making those noises?”“The five hurricanes.” I said, still not conscious of being conscious. My roommate slept on the day bed; I slept on a love seat at least two feet too short. The St. Louis heat in our third floor studio oven, even in the middle of the night was more than uncomfortable. She told me of the exchange later, in the morning. I had no idea of its meaning. I was stoned when I went to bed.

Denver, CO, January 1999.

A few days before this particular day, a friend from work suffered a serious head injury while skiing. Most of us were wondering how long it would be before she died. The two of us had lived in Key West at the same time, shared some common acquaintances while there, and yet had never met; then. Fast forward to Denver and the realization of our near-miss friendship, and the bond of similar experience in the now, and my realization that our time this time around was to be brief. Now she was comatose, her brain swelling, her friends in disbelief, her death at hand.

Her effect on her co-workers was strong (As she was charming, beautiful, magnetic…), and her effect on me, intense. It was all right to reminisce with her. She understood that life; what it was like to live it (or live through it). She had experienced it also. Knowing her enabled me to let go of so much baggage just by talking with her. Her impending death was devastating; it’s impact driving me further and further into my own inward recesses, metaphorically parallel to the recesses of the loft apartment at which I was house-sitting. I could literally seal myself off from the rest of the city, co-workers, and the few friends on the outside with whom I chose to communicate.

I was completely anesthetized, stonedstonedstoned, the television on with no sound, music loud, dancing with her memory, waiting for more news from my more courageous friends who stayed at the hospital. A friend who called directly after the accident kept saying “What a bad, bad girl,” her tone far away, her state of psychological shock evident. The muted Weather Channel cut to a map of the Caribbean and South Atlantic. The map reported four hurricanes and a system brewing. I had forgotten about that night in St. Louis, but then, the memory returned. My thoughts turned to the past, then to the future. The eventuality “El Finito” will come to Key West.

My friend has made a miraculous recovery since. She now lives in St. Louis and is friends with some of my friends there. They’ve said, had they not known about the injury, they would have never guessed that anything happened to her, much less the time line of her injury and present recovery, which is just a week over five months. She doesn’t remember the accident, the eventual groggy return to this world, where her mind was during…which is probably for the best. These turn of events have significantly altered my life, my wanting to forgive, to live in the now, to make sense of this precious gift of life.

St. Louis, May 1998

My former roommate told me of a recurring dream of her being in charge of a group of people, their leader. She did not want this task, but felt like their entire lives depended on her. Her aunt has strong psychic abilities and some of those gifts, she feels, have been passed on to her. She didn’t understand the significance of this vision or dream.

St. Louis, April 1999

While waiting for my former landlord to return home so I could retrieve the last of my belongings left hastily in St. Louis before my move to Denver, I wound up in a New-Age bookstore near her house, thumbing randomly through books. I came upon a chronicle of Nostradomous, channeled and interpreted through three psychics, the book written in a multiple interview format. By 2006, according to this book, to these psychics, the geography of the United States has been severely altered through shifts in tectonic plates under the North American continent. California and Florida were gone, the Southwest, to the Rockies, underwater.

The most disturbing information in these pages to me, if this indeed transpires, the words that stunned and rendered me dumb struck in the well lit and pleasantly scented Mystic Valley bookstore was this: The three prominent cities of the new “Mid-West” were Omaha, Nebraska (A seaport), Jefferson City, Missouri, and Harrison, Arkansas, a town 36 miles to the south of my hometown of Branson. Most everything to the west was under water. Reading further, the psychics were questioned on the status and how these changes affected St. Louis. St. Louis, according to them, was gone. No trace left of the confluence of the rivers Missouri and Mississippi. Metro St. Louis, almost three million people in two states, nowhere to be found in seven years.

If the rains come, if the changes happen, I hope my friend will be ready. As for the dream of the five hurricanes…I hope…I really hope I’m wrong.

Maybe though, there’s no way to prevent the coming cleansing rain.

For my Mother and Father

I tried to tell you…

“We’ve got stars directing our fate,and we’re praying it’s not too late,cause we know we’re falling from grace,Millennium…” -Robbie Williams, “Millennium.”

1. 1999 - the last year…the last peaceful year…

Watch as we slide, all of us, the implications as shock wavesOverlapping, resounding throughout our world. The polar opposites, their voices are rising, all over the world.Oblivion becomes louder, closes in…intensifies.

Do you feel it? You will. I wish I couldn’t, my father.The coming changes are of no surprise.Knowing of these changes sometimes causes my tension.

How could I tell you of my un-articulated gift when I didn’t know(didn't realize) myself?

I am amazed by the strength of my perception and empathy, their scope, the clarity, its effect. Thank you my mother, for these gifts. It just hurts sometimes, that’s all. Sometimes, being able to see better than the others, means seeing more of just how miserable our lives can or will be.

2. The woman in Burger King, her pushcart right beside her, who chewed her food thoroughly, with her baby doll make up and powder blue eyes and fraying dress, whose manners and chewing and dignity of expression still could not hide the almost unbearable sadness just behind her eyes, dad, at her age, in her 70’s… Her despair was overwhelming. I could not stay.

Me with my stupid, petty problems, I don’t have a car; I don’t have this or that, blah, blah, blah…I am young and smart and have good health, with strong legs and friends all over who love me, and I have absolutely no problems in comparison.

And it’s important to me to remember her eyes, that look, and to keep it close to my heart. I must never forget. I’m so very, very thankful for the life and remaining time I have. I must remember others are not so fortunate.

Thank you, Mom and Dad. I love you very much.

The pride of 1999

“Do you have an opinion; a mind of your own? Well, I’ve run out of patience; I couldn’t care less…”
Garbage, “Special.”

I’m really sure “gay” isn’t the right word for it…

The music is loud, and his perception is distorted by the interaction of the multiple drugs he’s ingested. His eyes cause the other men dancing around him to slow down, float, and double. Anonymous hands and parts brush him, fueling his amphetamine bliss. His pupils are wide and he sees the answers he seeks, but it’s only fleeting, as the music and interaction takes him quickly elsewhere. He will only remember flashes.

His heart is strained from the cocaine cocaine. His mouth is dry and his penis flaccid. To the other men, he is so cool… as they neither know nor do they wish to know any more than the superficial. His package is a perfect cliché, the ultimate gay fantasy. He is proud, so fucking proud to know the cool bars and best drink specials and the "A-Gays” with their superior attitudes and the fabulous parties and the prettiest boys who always have the best drugs, their faces touched up with just a hint of the most expensive male makeup available.

Later, he has yet another anonymous hook-up with the hottest guy in the bar. The actual sex isn’t important, just the motions. He can drink more than the rest with the help of his choice of drugs. His jeans fit his ass so well. His family misses him, but they are far away now, of no concern. The trick is rich, with a convertible and a condo by the park. He has done this many times before, also.

He claims to be a model artist, but waits tables for the coke that rules him. Hours later, he wakes up, emotions and serotonin drained, the guilt he claims he doesn’t possess rears its head, and he leaves without getting the rich trick’s number. He knows he’ll see him again and they’ll date, because, in his delusion, he knows this is the one with which he’ll spend the rest of his life. The next night at the beer bust, the rich trick doesn’t even look his way. He pretends to be shocked and devastated and justifies his latest binge with his latest heartbreak. His friends, family, and co-workers will pay the price in bitterness later for even attempting to give a shit. And he is so very proud. Yes he is.

He wonders why more people don’t like him. When he closes his eyes, the gnawing blackness overtakes his being, ever so slowly. His abyss has its very own soundtrack in the muffled beats of the club music he can barely remember. He finds a certain comfort on the dance floor, dancing with his shirt off with other tweaked shirtless boys who he’s already fucked. They are all one great big ball of confusion all heading toward the same end.

Pride? You’re proud? Don’t you dare speak for me, pricks. I too, am gay, but not your way. There are others, who, like me, like and love ourselves more than that. Clique-ism is not pride. “Community” is not alcohol or alcohol-establishment driven. Blind acceptance of stereotypical behavioral patterns is not pride. Investing all of one’s identity into sex and sexuality is not pride. Will there ever be a parade for people like me? If there is, I’m sure there won’t be any drink specials.

Louder, louder

Before each major change, the refrain grows from being inaudible to loud, then louder. That’s how I know to prepare. In my mind’s ear, the man sounds like Hank Williams Sr. Maybe he is. That nasal, distant, mournful voice keeps repeating the same phrase over and over again. “Yer… gonna miss me when Ahhm gone… Yer… gonna miss me when Ahhm gone…”

In 1986, I became an intern in the News Department of a country music station. 20 hours a week, course credit, plus two dollars an hour for time spent. But, more importantly, I also go to DJ for three or four nights a week. Although I had grown up with country music as a background soundtrack, it was not the first, second, or fifth choice for voluntary listening. I knew of Donna Fargo, Dolly Parton, the Statler Brothers, Loretta Lynn, and some other performers, but they did nothing for me. I liked 70’s pop and rock well enough, but don’t remember having any major interest in music until just before junior high. Disco, then new wave and Synth Pop, any British music, really, they caught my ear, but never Country music; that was for sure.

I was excited about being on the air. I worked very hard at learning how to gather news and honed my announcing skills, and loved every minute of it, at first. I even learned to love some of the music. Roseanne Cash, Steve Earle, Lyle Lovett, Nanci Griffith, and Dwight Yoakam are still favorites. But after three plus years, I had grown tired of certain aspects of the job--very tired.

During the course of my tenure there, I played a song with the line, “Yer…gonna miss me when Ahhm gone.” Such a simple phrase, but it held serious emotional punch. Yer gonna miss me when Ahhm (I’m) gone. I will take myself out of your everyday life, and you will feel my absence. I thought about that phrase a lot. Those seven little words expressed a universal truth. You will miss me more than I miss you.

Who do you miss? Who misses you? Was it spite, or a simple statement? Seven little words in a country song…

In the coming months, there were obstacles and difficulties at the radio station. Each time something bad happened, I’d think of that line and smile, or glare. Each time, the line would be just a little bit louder. The song got much louder while work became much less…enjoyable. And then, one day, my friend Angie suggested working with her waiting tables. A week later, I was a waiter.

After three plus years waiting tables, the last six months of which spent living with my first serious boyfriend Doug, the line got louder: much louder. We were to move to Florida together, Doug and I. But we were too different. He seemed to have the ability to speak complete sentences before thinking about what they might mean. Towards the end, he would talk and talk and I could see his lips move, but all I could hear was that lyric, over and over. “Yer…gonna miss me when I’m gone…” After one particular fight over money and moving matters, he threatened to move alone if he didn’t get his way. To which I said, “Ok, if that’s what you want.” The called bluff, his expression, the line, all simultaneous. That, as they say, was that.

The last few months in Key West, the song returned. I’d ride my bike around, thinking of this current wrong relationship and the wrongs he and I committed against the other. All the while that line lingered in the background. He would miss me when I left, but I would miss him, too. I left one week after deciding to. The whole week was a blur of packing and good-byes and shock on both our parts.

Back in Branson, I missed him so bad. Sometimes I catch my breath about that time, regretting the decision to come home so desperately. Desperate phone calls and intense feelings and those awful mood swings were common. Such a dark time, but then, well, here I am now, after following the path…

About two years later, living in St. Louis, the song eased itself back into my conscious thought. Walking the hot streets, the heat from the pavement distorting vision, I hummed the tune, waiting for something to happen. My friend Kim called from Denver in early July. “What’s up? How are things? How’s St. Louis?” Hmmm, where to start…

After a rather thorough venting of my spleen about the day-to-day in St. Louie, she suggested I move to Denver. I’d never even considered it. She told me about life in Colorado and how happy she was, and that happiness was reflected in her voice. She liked where she lived, where she was, her progress, and state of mind. So, during the phone call, I told her yeah, why not (?), and made up my mind to move. I had never even visited Colorado, but six weeks and a day later I lived in Denver.

Just over two years have passed since arriving at Union Station that Monday morning in 1997. There is great truth to the statement “You change your geography, you change your life.” Life for the most part here in Denver has been great. The people are friendly and the climate is terrific. I’ve been able to make great strides within myself towards finding a suitable daily equilibrium.

I’ve been able to save money, work on these pages, and love myself for who I am while acknowledging my faults and shortcomings with objectivity less fully realized in the past. I feel good, about myself, about the past, about the future. It feels good to feel good. And now, as the song once again grows louder, I await the coming months with anticipation and excitement. I must be ready, for soon, more changes will occur. It’s 4 a.m. and I’m going to sleep.

What could be the other me/What could be …the other me?

“Devil-man, Devil-man calling! Devil-man runnin’ in my head-yeah!”
White Zombie, “Super-Charger Heaven.”

“I KNOW that GOD lives in everybody’s souls, & the only ‘devil’ in your world, lives in the human… heart! So now ask your self, what is human? & What is truth? Ask your self. Whose voice is it. That whispers unto you? From the cellars of your homes. From the tops of your city roofs…Ask yourself whose voice is it. That whispers unto you?”
The The, “Good Morning Beautiful.”

Every once in a while, when doing nothing in particular, dancing, walking, staring… I’ll glimpse onto, what could be, if I let the shadow side dominate my actions. The evil behavior I am capable of, the destructive sexual practices, moral ambiguity, and easy, easy access to anything. I am rampant in my consumption of everything. My family and friends are heartbroken. I am dying.

These scenes are very disturbing, as the dark side of my personality is capable of driving my actions towards these ends, if given ample opportunity. It could be so easy.

Temptation tempts me every moment, every day.

FAQ’s for the workplace Gossip from someone who’d just as soon kick your ass…

1. If I talk enough shit about my co-workers, do you think they’ll figure out what a miserable waste of skin I really am? Yes. Yes they will.

2. If I qualify all the miserable shit about any and everyone that falls out of my mouth oh so very often with “I’m just kidding! You ought to know me well enough…” or some variation thereof, do you think my co-workers will believe me? Not a fuckin’ chance.

3. If I stab enough people in the back, do you think that eventually someone might stab me in the heart? It could happen.

4. If I’m a generally miserable person to others, do you think my co-workers might get some secret delight when another turns my own brand of misery on me? Absolutely. People love sweet irony.

5. When deciding between the two, should I open my mouth and say something negative or take a shit? No contest. Take the shit.

6. Is there any way I can reverse this horrible process? Yup. Shut your damn yap before you say anything mean at all. Think before you talk. Show your co-workers some basic respect.

And finally, for you men especially, banish all references to female genitalia from your vocabulary. It’s totally disrespectful, and who knows? You might enrage someone to the point of him or her ripping your own little dick right off! Are we clear? Good.

Sad lil’ coke queen, so very, very..

“There she goes; there she goes again..”
The La’s, “There she goes again.”

“It’s all good, it’s all…good.
You ought to know me well enough to know that-I’m just kidding.
No harm intended!
It’s all good.”

“Fat fucking cow in that dress…ugly bitch…Oh hey!
I’m only kidding!It’s all good.”
That bitch better watch it, or I’ll kick her in her smelly…Oh no!
I’m just kiddingyououghtaknowme wellenough…
Really, it’s all…

I’m a career waitron. I hate everyone, but mostly myself. My hate grows like cancer in the pit of my stomach. But an eight ball will fix everything. Yeah, everything..

Then I can talk again to all my friends and they’ll love me,my art, my charming comments, my..
and life will be perfect…again.

I think people secretly despise me. I can’t shake that feeling.

This one’s dedicated to..

Have you written... Denver, 1999

“Little by little, the earth clears,Little by little, I can breathe again…”
Robert Plant, “Little by Little.”

“Have you written anything about me yet?” No, but I will. Believe me, I will. The time is not right just yet, but I have written of you before, many times. Do you not know who I am? Hopefully, soon, you will remember…

Our friendship grows again, old friend. The empathy, the unspoken knowing…is returning, as it was before. Trust. I told you today that, while I have a great deal of friends who consider me close to them, I have only a few to which I would consider the same. Of which you have always been.

Our lives, they have been so different, our origins so far from the other. The paths we took to meet up under such unlikely circumstances! Me, bouncing from point to point troubled because of the void, you, more static in location, hurtling ever faster within yourself. The events of the past all led us here, to our friendship, and hopefully the pain of past mistakes melts away with the ever-growing strength of our camaraderie.

I told you the day we first met was the day I was to quit at our respective place of work. You were just starting, and I had had enough. Walking through the door, ready to give the night’s notice, I saw you there. And I knew to stay. Something in your eyes told me this was not the time to leave. I’m so glad I listened.

That’s the God’s honest truth, _____. And I know you know that. Because you were looking into my eyes when I told you about it later.

The King of Colorado.

I was waiting for the bus on that Saturday afternoon, having earlier slept and dreamt and thrown up, worrying about the fate of my friend who might go back to prison. The bus stop was at 12th and Grant, in front of the Division of Employment office. It was hot and the sunshine intense. Almost no one was out.

I had dreamt earlier of a large, almost empty Victorian mansion, an intricately carved wooden interior, and steep, steep steps, easier to climb than descend. The steps themselves grew, trapping me, at one point, on the top flight. I was unable to leave the house. The steps eventually relented, and I ran outside.

I was greeted with warmth, a light breeze, the song of the birds, and my friends in the distance. They were under a pavilion, having a picnic, waiting for me. Kim laughingly scolded me for being so late, and said others would be there also. I awoke soon afterward.

I had visited my friend in the county jail earlier that day. His incarceration stemmed from a violation of the terms of his agreement with the halfway house program of which he was enrolled. His well-being was of great concern to me. So there I was, at the bus stop in the sunshine, waiting to go to work, lost in thought, saddened by circumstance. I felt very heavy.

At this time, my eyes scanned left to an apartment building the same moment some guy with a road pylon began to yell out to anyone within earshot. “I am the KING of Colorado! Bong hits for everyone! You are my people, my minions…” Then, from the balcony of another apartment, “SHUT--UP!” Then, quickly and much more quietly… “Ok. That is all.”

That guy probably spent a lot of time out in the hall during school. Sometimes one pays the price for being funny. But laughter is a great gift don’t you think? It’s enjoyable, brings you right into the moment, and is fondly remembered, almost always. At least it does for me, anyway. Because on that day, I remember feeling hopeless and powerless and nauseous, but I don’t remember how those emotions physically felt. They were over-ridden by the release of laughter.

I do remember how that felt, and how much, at just that moment, I needed to laugh that hard. And I remember how much I appreciated that smart-ass on the third floor. By mouthing off, he cleared some of the negative hanging on me, enough so I could think that, maybe everything would be all right after all. Of which it was. I guess the King is still around, king-ing it up somewhere in Denver. Good for him.

Capitol Hill, 1999.

The workday was difficult. Another Sunday brunch in the kitchen, organizing and
running food, fixing problems, yelling at obstinate cooks, yelling at waiters
who wouldn’t run anyone else’s food, dealing with bitchy customers, and other
life-sucking activities on this day of rest. At the end of the shift, I was
always spent.

On this particular day, one of the waiters pulled me aside, thanked me for
saving his ass a couple of times, and flipped me a joint. “Enjoy the rest of
your day, dude.” He said, smiling. I walked out the door, smiling for almost
the first time that day.

Downtown wasn’t too active on this particular Sunday. Some people were mulling
around the 16th Street Mall, but not enough to be bothersome. Everyone walks a
little bit slower on Sunday. People flow past, with more grace than on Monday,
for example. The Sun shone brightly, but was indirect. Like everything else,
it too seemed a little softer on this day than it will tomorrow. As I got
closer to home, crossing Broadway, walking past the Capitol, what was left of my
anxiety began to melt away.

The man was outside his house, farting around on a Sunday (as far as I could
tell), as I walked by, head down, thinking multiple thoughts. "“Hey; hey!” He
said. I looked up at still walking. “What’s it all about?”
“What’s what all about, sir?”
“Life! What’s it all about?”

“The journey.” I said reflexively, still walking. I took three or four more
steps before looking over my shoulder, smiling at the reminder, smiling at the
old man farting around his yard, smiling at me. I took a deep breath through my
nose and followed the skateboarder cruising east on 12th, going who knows where.

Capitol Hill feels like home; Denver feels like home; at least for now.

Before Brunch. October 1999, Capitol Hill.

I left for work almost an hour early. It’s nice to have some “acclimation time”
before actually working. The walk from Capitol Hill to Lower Downtown takes
almost 30 minutes at a leisurely pace, so leaving an hour before was early
enough. Every Sunday, the same routine would apply: Out the door, down the back
steps, out the back door, through the alley, cross 12th, up to 13th, hang a left
and walk to Logan, take a right, walk to Colfax, take another left, walk past
Broadway, cross to 16th, and walk the length of 16th to work. Almost every
Sunday, I took the same path.

I was walking through the alley when I came upon a man digging through a
Dumpster. I was briefly startled, as I hadn’t sensed his presence and had not
been paying attention to the noise he was making, but composed before he sensed
me in his space. He turned to the left suddenly, staccato laughed, and said,
“I’m the Devil, man!” and made a kind of hissing sound, waiting for my reaction.

“That’s funny,” I said slowly, “I’ve seen the Devil several times, and you don’t
look like him…” His whole body paused in mid-movement. “Are you sure you’re the
Devil? How do you know I’m not the Devil?” I narrowed my eyes, concentrated my
gaze, and grew dark, staring into him, motionless, freezing him to the spot next
to the Dumpster in the alley. There was just the two of us.

“I woke up drunk this morning. My girlfriend says I drink too much.” He said,
once again mobile after an undetermined length of time. He began to walk down
the alley a few steps behind and to the left of me, towards the next trashcan.
“I’m lookin’ for a pouch for my shoes.”

“Uh-huh. Well, good luck with that. I’m late for work,” I said, lying,
speeding up, done with the encounter.
“Hey!” he said as I was leaving, “I’ll see you later.”
“Maybe,” I said, rounding the corner, turning left on 13th.

Walking the Avenue, Sunday’s quiet sunny morning was only briefly interrupted by
a few cars approaching from the east. The sounds of re-distributed trash faded
quickly into the near past as each devil went his separate direction. Work was
still a 25-minute walk away. The Sun became gradually brighter. I continued
on, walking the nearly empty streets, headed in the direction of my employment.

Little Baby Jesus. December 1999

“…Each person is responsible for the circumstances in which he finds himself.
He is not the innocent victim of his environment, he is simply meeting self.”

-Mary Ann Woodward, Edgar Cayce’s Story of Karma.

There seems to be something about me that causes people to become more open,
revealing their inner truths, without provocation, in situations where they
normally would not. This also held true for Little Baby Jesus. Don was his
name, but I gave him the nickname because his birthday fell on December 25th.
So beautiful, so sad, so many strikes early in life, he might not ever recover.
But others saw only his arrogance and superficialities, as this was his usual
posture.

I gave him a ride home once, after a night shift, in the winter. He had taken
some GHB right before the end of his shift, and became incapacitated. After
helping him with his closing duties and checkout, I got him out of the
restaurant quickly before he lost all motor coordination. I’d had no direct
encounters with anyone on GHB before and wasn’t sure what to expect on the ride
home.

After I got him in the car, he was relaxed to limp, and slumped against the
passenger window. His energy level was low, but he became rather chatty,
telling me an overview of his life, the traumas, the neglect, the rootless ness
of his existence, his little head pressed up against the glass. His tone was
calm as he told me his parents were cokeheads that had fully abandoned him by
age 13. He lived on the streets of Downtown Atlanta for several years,
sometimes staying with others, sometimes not, and no real where to go. Doing
whatever for money. There was no one to trust. He moved to other cities,
repeating the same behaviors, surviving the only way he knew. Now he lived in
Denver.

He was staying with a drug dealer at the time, he said. He thought I should
know, in case I’d like to come inside with him later. I thanked him for telling
me and said I’d think about it. The dealer also had cancer, and Don was charged
with tending to some of his needs. Their dynamic seemed rather complex. He
inferred a somewhat paternal relationship at times, and other times he talked as
if he were the Kept Boyfriend of the dealer.

He’d been in and out of jail. He was tough. He had to be. But the soft inner
core remained. Damaged, he opened himself to me anyway, because, I think he
knew I would not harm him.

Don had a lot of friends who, at the time of their friendship(s), had been in
worse circumstances than he. He always did what he could to help them, as much
as one teen-age street person could help another. Sometimes he did help,
sometimes not. He’d seen more than enough hardship for someone so young. His
casual, dreamy monotone related horrors, sadness, and utter hopelessness. He
had no one to take care of him, and he needed that someone so desperately. This
maybe-permanent emotional wound allowed him to live, but he was “walking
wounded.”

I took a longer route to his home so he could talk, but by the time we drove
through the park, he was spent. I stroke his shaved head, still against the
glass, and he closed his eyes but did not sleep. I kept my hand on his head the
rest of the way there. Neither of us spoke. He so needed someone to take care
of him. For a moment, a few blocks from his house, he opened one eye, smiled a
grateful smile, looked at me, and then closed his eye again.

When we got to his destination, he became more energized. Returning to the old
persona, changing back to his normal behavior, but not fully. “I’m gonna act
different inside,” he said. In which he did. The moment we passed through the
doors, he became cocky, exhibitionistic, and hyperactive.

The Dealer regarded me as suspicious almost immediately, interrogating me in a
circular fashion about my intentions with Don, while Don proceeded to open all
the cabinet doors in the kitchen. Not finding anything edible and losing
interest, he headed toward the remote on the sofa, leaving all the doors in
their new place, in various degree angles from the others. After switching the
channels a few seconds, he grabbed some pornography that was on the coffee
table. He told me he liked the penetration shots best and everything else
wasn’t worth a shit. The dealer smiled at me, black eyes still cold, when I
looked over at him.

A little before two a.m., the phone began ringing, one call after another.
People were getting out of the clubs and headed here for more of whatever they
were doing. Don said that I should probably go now, as he didn’t want me to see
how he’d be behaving in a few minutes. He looked sincere and sad. His eyes
were soft, moist, and resigned to whatever it was he would be doing soon. So I
told him goodbye and that I’d see him at work. He watched me walk out to the
car from the front door. He turned and went out of view as I pulled onto the
street.

He got fired shortly thereafter, and I haven’t seen him since. I heard he got
arrested and sent to jail. I don’t know. I hope not. When I think of him, I
hear this prayer that’s really a question. “Little Baby Jesus, will you be all
right?”

I think of him often. Poor little Capricorn, all alone….

Random thoughts concerning the Denver Human Services Building…

"Wake up, wake up, get up, it’s the first of the month,
Get up, get up, get up, cash that check, it’s the first of the month…"
-Bone Thugs –n- Harmony, "First of the Month"

Random thoughts concerning the Denver Human Services Building…
And those working in it. And those receiving assistance from it. And then some. The building and its inhabitants are seriously dysfunctional, a system perfectly representing that saying about the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing.

Welfare is a conundrum. The liberals have good intentions, but those who occupy influential positions to carry out their directives are surprisingly weak on skills and implementation. Weaker still, are the bulk of employees in the lower echelon of jobs in the building. Many are transitioned from TANF (The System) to Labor Pool (The System), where Human Services uses the potential ones they want to keep, and the ones they can’t place anywhere else.

The conservatives don’t even acknowledge there are people who are truly "unemployable," much less that their numbers are legion. By not addressing the critical problem now, we, as a society are setting ourselves up for a socio-economic disaster the like of which this country has never seen before. It’s just around the corner, waiting. Bush will help the deterioration along quite nicely.


Graduation Day. January 2000

With the advent of Welfare Reform, a number of classes are offered for pre-job training. These classes are basically remedial, the instructors telling people what they should have already known years and years ago on how to find a job. "Be on time for an interview." "Bring your own pen." "Shower and wash your hair." "With shampoo and soap." "Don’t swear at the person conducting the interview." "Don’t show up high." And on. These classes are usually about six weeks long, Monday through Friday, 8:30 a.m. to 1:30 or 2:00, with an hour for lunch.


This experience is the high school or junior high some of these people never had, and Graduation Day is a big deal. Human Services keeps about 30 blue graduation robes on hand for the every second or third week "Graduation." Festivities consist of a ceremony where friends and family attend and a graduation potluck afterward. The ceremonies are held in a conference room across from the staff cafeteria. So during my normal course of daily activities, I could see portions of all the ceremonies.

The classes are primarily women, with one or two men at the most, in each class. During the ceremony, the instructors would talk about the class and mentions specific anecdotes about all the attendees that are positive and inclusive. The room is filled with boyfriends and babydaddies, and children and mothers, but very few older men. Everyone seems to enjoy the potluck very much.

Before one particular ceremony, I accidentally bumped into a graduate on her way to the proceedings. We stared at each other for a second after impact. The sharpness of her hard beauty, powerful gaze, and double teardrop tattoos of her left eye were startling. Teardrop tattoos around the eyes are code for gang killings or friends lost to violence. They have taken the time to tattoo a teardrop in close proximity to their eyes as a testament to the impact of violence on their lives. Or they are bragging. One should exercise great caution around such people.

I apologized profusely for not looking up and her intensity faded a bit. Her eyes were still dark, but she said, "No problema," and went into the conference room. I saw her later in the cafeteria with her two kids and her tattooed, frowning, angular-featured boyfriend or husband. She was holding her little girl in the air and smiling. For her and the others, this would be a day to remember.

Marie. May 2000

Marie was one of the two women who came into our program together in the spring. After about a day and a half, it was apparent that both of these women had been employees somewhere before. Good employees. One had been a Manager in a fast food restaurant. They knew how to, could, and did work very hard. Which is not to say the others didn’t, but that these women came in at a much higher level. It was a relief to have two new students who hit the ground running and could handle more responsibility than the others. But at the same time, I wondered what they were doing there and why they were on TANF in the first place.

Marie did very well the first couple of weeks, with only minor attendance problems. With five children, some having recurring health issues, sometimes she would be absent. But this was to be expected. She was a quick learn and wasn’t allergic to or afraid of the mop, either. She and the other woman were my "rock stars," operating the Mexican station of our cafeteria serving line with competence and efficiency.

Several weeks into the program, Marie’s ex-husband, with whom she’d had no contact with in over five years, appears at her home, beats the shit out of her, and tells her to keep quiet or she’ll end up like "______," a man whose murder had remained, we later found out from the authorities, unsolved up until now. She shows up the next day, freaked out, crying, drunk, purple and black from the beating, her face one big bruise. After five plus years of no contact, he shows up and does this. How could she ever feel safe again? After that day, she never came back.

Talk to the left, cuz that ain’t right. August 2000

One of the people on staff overheard two "Social Technicians" discussing vacation plans. The one doing the talking was getting ready to fly to Chicago to be in the audience on Springer. She had been in the audience for Oprah, Rikki Lake, and Rolonda already, so Springer was, of course, fitting, and the next logical step in her genre immersion. When I would channel surf, I would stop on various talk shows, looking at shots of the audience, trying to pick out the Social Workers in the sea of freaks. I couldn’t. The entire audience was covered in the same taint of stupidity. I took some comfort in the probability that not all of them could possibly work in Human Services.

February, 2000

The lunch shift was about 30 minutes old, and although later every table would be occupied, at that moment less than half were. I was bussing tables today, which became much more of a job than we had anticipated. When we began our operation, the only thing we had asked of our customers is that they take their dishes to the dishroom on the West Side of the employee cafeteria. Initially, we put signs on each table with this information in a little free standing plastic picture frame. Almost all the frames were immediately stolen. And because we didn’t replace them, people stopped picking up after themselves. I’m assuming it was because nobody told them they had to. As a result, the Assistant Director and I spent a lot of time on the floor cleaning up the ungodly bullshit remnants of people’s lunches. So filling evidently, they had only the strength to go back to their desk for a full afternoon of sitting and talking without cleaning up after themselves.

There were a number of dirty tables to be cleaned, as there always were. I began with a particularly cluttered table by the window. I had just started cleaning when a woman came up behind me and stood, impatient, waiting for this one particular table while the surrounding tables were clean and empty. "Pardon me for just one more moment." I said, continuing to clean and gather.

"Hurry." She spat, tapping her foot, barely controlling her tray, drink and books piled next to her entrée. I looked at her for a long moment, grabbed a few items from the table, and left, not completing the task. After dropping off the trash, I headed back out to the dining room where the woman was still standing, waiting for me to finish cleaning her table. I turned left and went into the serving area. She finally sat down, pushed the remaining garbage to one side, ate, and left, her trash to the left of the person’s trash sitting there before her.

Those crazy homeless. September 2000

When homeless people become desperate enough, they end up at Human Services. Their reality must be incredibly harsh, facing circumstances and daily humiliations others can’t conceive without actually experiencing them. They project sad shadows, sitting in dirty, smelling clothes, waiting in the lobby for help, for some solution for their life. Pleading in silence or mumbling to themselves or someone next to them, for anything to fill the void. When their name is called, they become a number, and limited help is now on the way.

During one of my frequent trips past the lobby, I noticed a heavily bandaged man sitting waiting for his turn for assistance. From the looks of his injuries, I assumed he’d been in a recent car wreck, as his head wounds were still bleeding through the gauze, looking very fresh. Without stopping, I continued on. The next day, the man came into the café for something to drink.

After buying a large soda, he hung around for awhile, chatting with me, killing some time before his appointment. My curiosity was piqued, so I asked him about his injuries. He said he was homeless and was sleeping by a bridge under Speer Boulevard when three other drunken homeless men savagely attacked him for his money, which amounted to 20 dollars. Nothing, really. "One of the guys tried to bite my fuckin’ nose off! Can you believe that?" He said.

In case of emergency..

The building always felt like there will, eventually, be a mass shooting on site, and lots of people will be shocked and say, "How could this happen?" and others will not be shocked and say "I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner." Lots of simmering anger and frustration in the air, but not lots of intelligence or rationality. People get upset and crazy there, when they don’t get what they want, whatever that is. Lots of Supervisor/Employee—Employee/ Recipient arguments in the hall, voices rising for all to hear.

A full time instructor conducted violence in the Workplace seminars. People didn’t try to be nice. Lots of infighting, lots of big, big egos in Human Services, for such little, little miserable people. And these were the "helpers." Sometimes there were copies of notices to employees about certain fugitives, that, if they were seen on site, to notify security or the police as they were dangerous.

I would hate to see it, but there would be massive casualties if an incident should occur. People would be slow to react. A banger could come in and fuck some shit up. Anybody could, really, if you chill at the main entrance, past the main guards, and can figure out where the real police are before shooting.

People go out the security door on the second floor to smoke, leaving it wide open, with no surveillance camera inside. People in the building make it so easy for someone to come gunnin’, because they’d rather not make sure a door is closed and save lives (or to look at it from this perspective) than make sure the security door is closed. The old Human Services building had bomb and other threats pretty regularly, but no one seems to take the past very seriously. Evidently, nothing will change until something happens there.

Britt..

More often than not, Britt would be eating something from McDonald’s, while waiting in the hall before her appointment, her mom beside her. She had a form of Down’s Syndrome, but I don’t know if that was the nature of her appointment, or if that was really her mom or her guardian. That wasn’t important. Upon seeing her there, happy with love from McDonald’s, I’d always call out in exclamation, "Britt! What’s happenin’?" The initial call of her name always seemed to startle her up quickly, then recognition took over, and she’d smile that beautiful little girl smile of hers as she told me what was happening.

Cell phone mania!, August 2000

Everyone’s got to have a cell phone. Got to be connected…What if someone’s trying to reach me? Got to have a pager, too…

An amazing amount of people on assistance own cell phones. Personally, I hate this modern intrusion of the collective silence. Businessmen, drivers, little old ladies, they all talk like there’s no tomorrow wherever it’s convenient for them. It’s just so rude to subject everyone to your personal conversations, especially when the dolt using the phone tries to hold two conversations at once, ordering food by pointing, not wanting to interrupt a call. "Can’t you see I’m on the phone?" Uhhh, yeah, can’t you see where you are? Yessir, I get it.. You're world-class busy and super fuckin' cool. Would you like the burrito or the hot dog?

It has also become a badge of honor to some. The older woman pulled all three of her cell phones out of her purse, one at a time. Why she needed three, I don’t know, but they looked impressive all lined up on the table. Must be a great rate package for three cell phones. What the fuck. I guess one or two just wasn’t enough. Beautiful lessons she’s showing her kids, don’t you think? How about their shot to break away from the system? Maybe they can call someone to pull him or her out.

Everybody’s got to have a cell phone. I don’t get it. The last thing I want is for people to have easier contact with me. No way--try me at home. I’ll be screening my calls. I am definitely in the minority at the Human Services building. Almost everyone has a cell phone. Cops and guards for security, Social Workers for field work, Foster parents for whatever reason, and almost everyone on assistance.

Payday? Already?

Around the last of every month, everyone in the building runs out of money. Not just the people on assistance, but the employees, who get paid twice monthly. Employees in the building routinely pay for a $1.02 soda by check. They used to pay by credit and debit cards, until we established a $10.00 spending minimum. Some people use change to pay for everything the entire last week. Then the first rolls over, and money from the government in the forms of assistance and salary is handed out, and the long wait for the middle of the month begins.
The first day or two of every month, everyone pays for everything with 20’s or 100’s.

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