Variations on Death - 10. Tested

As I sat on his sofa, he paced his living room like a caged lion, full of energy, smoking and talking and gesturing with his hands, an expressive and emotional man of thirty. Though offering polite replies to questions, I paid attention to less than half what he said, my thoughts diverted by the naked lipsticked and blue-wigged mannequin in the middle of his kitchen, the usernames and passwords scrawled in plain view on sticky notes beside his desktop computer, and the empty bottles secreted on shelves, tables and even the floor. Everything about his little cracker box house seemed incautious, but the times we lived in demanded caution. People were dying. A plague was running rampant, and nobody knew much about it.

The scent of old cigarettes mingled with the perfume of laundry detergent did not please me, either. With anyone else, I would have left already. Oh, but he pleased me, deep-voiced, bold, muscle-bound, and hairy chested as he was, okay for a day or alright for a night. A couple puffs on the glass water bong I saw beside his computer, and the house would seem artistic and eclectic to me. I wondered whether I could get used to the cigarette smoking.

He looked me up and down with wonder as though he could not believe his eyes. "This is such a trip. I remember seeing you in the crib as a baby and then later as a little kid. I never thought then that you were gay. I mean it never occurred to me.”

He had been friends with my older brother a long time ago. Friends, well—they did drugs together. Everyone assumed he was straight then, but he was only straight-acting. Everyone looked up to him in high school. He had been the popular boy with the brand new, hot red Trans Am, designer clothes, sunglasses and looks to kill, a rich man's son, at least until his Pop got popped for embezzlement and the money ran dry.

Now here I was, all grown up, and his telling me I had a cute this-and-that only reinforced what was already in his eyes. He seemed a strong stallion, and I liked to ride, but before I hopped on his saddle, there was a matter of horse sense to settle. I popped the question, the only really relevant one for me in those days. “You been tested?” A shadow passed over me as I said it.

He stood barefoot in the kitchen, taller than me, in jeans, shirt off, hairy muscled chest out, a fine specimen, and he smiled like all that was enough, and maybe it was for the tricks he brought home from the bar. Carpe diem, right? Seize the day--except my young life had a lot of days ahead, and I wanted every damn one of them, not just some. I said it again. “You been tested?”

His smile faded. “Ah. I don't want to know. My ex, he's got it. I don't think I do. I feel healthy. I just... I just don't want to find out. Don't need to know. I read the Bible every day. Stay right with the Lord. If I'm good with the Lord, I'll be okay. I'll make it. I'm a sinner, we're all sinners, but the difference is, I confess my sins, and I'm alright with the Lord.”

He retrieved a beer from the fridge and sat down on the sofa beside me, offering me the beverage (I declined) and letting me know he had liquor, dope and blow. I had a feeling I could ask for any sort of drugs at all, a hundred dollars, hey, whatever might float my boat. But no. After a polite interval and a plausible excuse, I was out of there. I did not return. We were dropping like flies in those days. I might have been many things, but I was not going to be another statistic. Hell, no.

A few years later, he went out after dark and did a wicked deed out of desperation or dementia. Soon after, he died in prison, according to the paper, “of complications from pneumonia.” As I read his obituary, I thought back to the choice I made. Oh, I had been tempted. Add to the equation booze, dope, and a really bad day, and who knows? I was the one tested and I passed. Just remember this, boys, death trumps desire. Not every fruit is good for eating. Stay sober and clean and make good choices.