All the Rage

by Brad Fraser

  The handsome date had been very aware of the transition in my mood from the moment the play started. Many of my friends were there, and those who knew the play all asked me what had happened to the captions. They could tell from my expression that my response was best left unspoken. The handsome date wisely made an excuse and left.

  David Gale and I ghosted from the party at the earliest opportunity. As we cabbed uptown I railed against Derek’s betrayal while he patiently listened—which was really all one can do when I’m like that.

  Unknown to me, Shain had a screaming match with AD Bob Baker in the lobby while the party was still going on. When I spoke to Shain the next morning, he informed me that Derek’s way of dealing with the captions, which he’d never liked although he never articulated why, and which I’d made clear were non-negotiable, was to have them projected at the same light level as everything around them, so they were effectively invisible. This meant he wasn’t in contravention of the “no changing the material” clause of his contract because, officially, the captions were still there.

  I was having none of that shit, and by the next show adjustments had been made to the lighting so the captions were visible. Derek left an abusive message on my voice mail telling me the captions were a cheap gimmick. This was the last contact we have ever had.

  I flew to New York immediately after the opening for meetings with a producer about a TV series he wanted to pitch to Fox. I also saw Brent Carver in his Tony-winning performance in Kiss of the Spider Woman. We had time for only a quick hello after the show. We kissed and I assured him he would win because he seriously was fucking brilliant. Everyone in Canada who cared about theatre celebrated when he won.

  While there I also recorded a television interview with the CBC’s Hana Gartner for a special the network was doing on prominent Canadians. Hana seemed particularly put off by my questioning of the idea of love as anything more than the heteronormative pair-bonding template. I enjoyed the conflict and gave sharp answers to her sometimes slanted questions, but when she said something like, “But doesn’t it bother you, knowing you’ll be denied a lasting love like normal couples have?,” I was so taken aback I sloughed the question off with one of my patented smartass quips—but I was angry at myself later for not having pushed back. I should’ve asked her what kept long-term gay couples from knowing what “normal” couples have, or how she could be so certain her own relationship would be “normal” and last the rest of her life when so few hetero relationships did. Many gay people who later watched the interview expressed their disgust with her.

  I was staying in Bob O’s apartment while he was away, putting the final touches on the Disney script one afternoon, when the phone rang. I picked it up, still focused on my laptop, and said hello distractedly.

  “Hello. I’m looking for Brad Fraser.” It was a woman’s voice I didn’t recognize.

  “Speaking.”

  “Oh hi, Brad, you’ve never met me, but I’m Ellie Moffat, John’s mother.”

  I pulled away from the computer, giving her my full attention. “Of course, Ellie. How are you?”

  “I’m—oh, you know—I’m not that good.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s right here. He wants to talk to you.” There are no words to describe the broken-hearted edge to Ellie’s voice. “We’ll talk again,” she said as she handed the phone to her son.

  John once had an actor’s voice, rich, sandy and adroit. He could sound like Marilyn Monroe or Clark Gable. On the phone that night his voice was flat and as thin as a fading radio signal on a dark prairie highway.

  “Hey, Brad. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. How are you?”

  There was a long pause and the dry, laboured sound of his breathing before he said, “I’m really sick now.”

  I said, “You are one of the best actors I’ve ever known. I would’ve written parts for you for the rest of your life.”

  “Actually, you did.”

  We both laughed—him weakly. “I don’t know if we’ll talk again.”

  “We will,” I said, “I know we will.”

  “I love you, Brad.”

  “You know I’ve always loved you.”

  A slow, whistly sigh. More laboured breathing. A low moan, and then, “I have to go.”

  “Okay.”

  A moment of nothing as his mother took the phone. “He’s going to sleep.”

  “Thank you so much for doing this. Please keep me posted.”

  Ellie said, “I will.”

  It was humbling to think that whatever emotion I was feeling about losing John was insignificant compared to whatever his mother must’ve be going through as she cared for him. John was blessed. Many of the people who died of AIDS died alone because their families rejected them.

  It had been twelve years since I’d met John. I’d hoped we’d collaborate well into the twilights of our careers. Now he was another friend dying of AIDS I spoke to long-distance on the telephone.

  PART SIX

  THE “BIGGER THAN JESUS” MOMENT

  THAT NIGHT AFTER TALKING TO John Moffat I went to Dudes, which still had a dance bar upstairs. It was a middling busy night and, as usual, I was dancing by myself at the edge of the dance floor when I was approached by a man I’d had my eye on for nearly a year. He was about five nine or ten, with a muscular but wiry build and a very Warren Beatty face, particularly across the bridge of the nose and the cheekbones. I’d first noticed him at Katrina’s, but he always seemed to be haunting the young guys, so I assumed he was a chicken hawk, which left me off his list.

  His name was Grayden John. He was successful, articulate and, unlike many of the people I met, not at all intimidated by me. We had a lovely chat that night, and as the bar was closing we exchanged numbers.

  He called me before I called him, which was a great sign. We were affable on the phone, very comfortable, getting each other’s humour and references easily. We made plans to have dinner on the weekend. I was encouraged.

  Two nights later I was out for dinner with Gordon at one of the trendy restaurants we frequented on Queen Street West when Grayden entered with a handsome young guy. They were seated at a table that allowed us to observe them without them seeing us. Just before they walked in I’d been raving to Gordon about how amazing Grayden was. From my seat I could see every time Grayden touched his companion’s hand or rubbed his ankle with his foot under the table.

  There was no way to exit the restaurant without going directly past his table, so when we did I forced a hearty, casual smile as if I was surprised to see him. His surprise was more genuine.

  When we got into Gordon’s jeep he said, “He’s a popular guy.”

  I said, “He sure is,” and we drove the rest of the way home in silence.

  Grayden called me two days later. He made no reference to the meeting at the restaurant. Our dinner date was still on. I was happy to go.

  He knew who I was, had seen a couple of the plays. I learned he was ten years my senior, well-educated and cultured, from that upper-middle-class background that only white people from central Canada really understand. He was an expert bureaucrat who had worked his way to the top of a major agency after a decade working in the public service.

  I loved his face. The sound of his voice. The things he said. Our eyes sparked when they met. We laughed often. After dinner we went to a bar for a few drinks and to dance. After an hour or so, as we were taking a break, he leaned into me and said over the music, “I’m HIV-positive.”

  I could feel him watching my reaction. While I always told myself I should assume everyone was positive, I was surprised, but I shrugged, saying, “Thanks for telling me.”

  “Just so you know what you’re getting into.”

  For a few minutes we said nothing, both of us moving to the music. I’d had sex with positive guys over the years but hadn’
t been involved intimately. It wasn’t the fear of infection that kept me at arm’s length; it was the fear of getting involved with someone who was probably going to get sick and die. At the back of my mind the same unspoken question lingered: “Were you infected before or after we found out what caused it?” For the men who were infected before we learned how the virus was transmitted, I felt great compassion. But for the men who tested positive after understanding where it came from, I was less generous.

  “Is it a problem?”

  “Not at all.”

  He put his arm across my back and squeezed my shoulder. My heart swelled.

  He drove me back to Bob O’s building, where I was staying, and in the car we kissed. It was gentle. It was exploratory. It was uncommitted. I found it profoundly exciting and my cock grew instantly hard. The kiss grew more insistent. I put my hand on his crotch and he was hard as well. When we finally broke the kiss and reluctantly parted, we made plans to meet again in a couple of days.

  After the next date we ended up back at his place. The sex was careful at first, as if we were both hoping to be whatever the other most wanted. When we were done and lying entwined together on the verge of sleep he said, “So what happens now?”

  I said, “I go to Australia for three weeks.”

  He said, “Lucky.”

  I said, “But let’s see what happens when I get back.”

  * * *

  —

  Poor Super Man was being produced by the Sydney Theatre Company and my presence had been requested. Shain had negotiated a great deal that got me airfare, subsidized by the Canada Council, accommodation and per diem paid by the producing theatre. I had been anticipating this trip for months and didn’t want to take the baggage of a new boyfriend with me. Grayden seemed very understanding. We had sex once more before I left and our goodbye kiss was tender.

  Twenty-two hours on a plane was too daunting to face narcotic-free. I’d cadged from Bob O a few lorazepam, an anti-anxiety drug everyone with HIV and everyone dealing with someone with HIV was taking at the time to keep from losing their minds, and managed to sleep most of the trip.

  The director of the play picked me up at the airport and drove me to my condo. I’d sent an email earlier alerting them that I was a pot smoker and asking them to get something for me. I usually did this when I was travelling to another country; people in the theatre are generally understanding about that sort of thing. The director didn’t disappoint and laid a nice bag of weed on me as he parted. I had to do a photo shoot immediately and did so looking like someone who’d just been on a plane for nearly a day while heavily drugged. Then I was taken back to the condo where I gratefully napped for a few hours.

  After waking I ate nearly everything in the fruit and cheese basket in my suite, smoked a huge joint and left the building to experience Sydney for the first time. The entire city felt familiar and strange, more Canadian than American or European, but also deeply different.

  I had been told to walk south through Centennial Park toward the harbour, then follow the shoreline on the left to find the theatre. I happened upon the park quite quickly and was terrified by the large grey leathery pods that hung upside down from the giant eucalyptus trees. Initially I took them for nests of some kind, but then realized they were actually flying foxes—bats as large as small dogs—sleeping with their wings wrapped around themselves. From the indifference shown by the many people around me, I understood that they weren’t a threat, but the sheer alienness of them still disturbed me.

  The sun was setting and thousands of sparkling white lights began to glow from the branches in the trees around me. I could see the Sydney Opera House in the distance and headed toward it. When I reached the shoreline I turned left, passing under Sydney Harbour Bridge. Across the water I could see Luna Park, a tacky amusement fair with a giant clown’s mouth for an entrance. On my side of the shore it was all trendy cafés and bars in the old harbourside warehouses. I thought, “I’m so fucking glad I’m high for this.”

  The theatre was situated on an enormous pier that jutted out into the harbour. I got my ticket at the box office and settled in at the back, entirely anonymous. The director and his cast and crew had done an amazing job on a wide stage that gave the entire production a sort of CinemaScope quality. It boded well for the opening.

  The theatre had put together a rigorous promotional campaign that involved me doing a great many interviews and sitting for a great many photographers. There were luncheons with speeches coordinated by Vogue Australia and full afternoon lectures/Q&As at the Sydney theatre school and other artistic institutions.

  But if I worked hard for my money, I played hard for it too. A few days after my arrival the publicist at the theatre invited me for a Saturday excursion on his yacht through Sydney Harbour with a number of other gay men. Three of the men on the boat—the director, the designer and the designer’s lover—were known to me; the two other queer larrikins were obviously taken with me and they’d be my hosts in the end.

  Their names were Marcus and Dante. They were about ten years my senior and they were two of the hardest-partying dudes I’ve ever met. We made plans for them to show me the bars, and when they called to confirm, Marcus ended with, “Clean out your nose.”

  Cocaine in Sydney? Now that sounded like fun.

  When they arrived they laid out a giant rail on the table and told me to snuff it up, before doing the same themselves. I was experiencing a lot of sinus pain. “What’s that blow cut with?” I asked. They shared a look.

  Dante said, “It’s crystal.”

  Marcus said, “We assumed you’d know that.”

  I’d never done crystal meth, and I never did it again—but I have to say, that was a fucking fun three days.

  The play proved to be a hit. I found Sydney was very gracious to anyone who made the trip. By my final night in town I’d been around long enough to throw a small cocktail party at the condo to thank the people I’d met and the people in the show for the excellent time. It turned out to be a total piss-up and climaxed with all of us at one of the bars high on ecstasy and dancing our faces off. Marcus and Dante gave me some downers to get me home and I decided it was best for me to stay up all night so as not to miss my flight.

  I passed out and missed my flight. Luckily another one was leaving the next morning, although it cost me an extra $500.

  Grayden greeted me at the airport with a wet kiss. We had some hot sex and he dropped me off, knowing I’d need some recovery time.

  * * *

  —

  I wasn’t quite my usual self when Hilda Jurgens phoned me my second day back and said, “Did you hear about the Star story?”

  “What Star story?”

  She said, “Sit down. I’ll read it to you. It came out just after you left. It’s the entire lower half of the front page of the entertainment section.”

  “What’s the headline?”

  “ ‘Canadian Playwright Against Government Funding for the Arts.’ ”

  I said, “I didn’t give any interviews about arts funding.”

  Hilda read me the article. The gist of it was that some people considered government funding for the arts controversial but, ironically, homegrown bad-boy playwright Brad Fraser was against it while David Mirvish, producer of the most commercial house in Toronto, was for it. It made no sense to me. I couldn’t remember saying the quotes they attributed to me. I was weirded out more than alarmed.

  I said, “The last interview I did with the Star was when Poor Super Man opened months ago.”

  “Did you discuss arts funding?”

  “We might have. But it wasn’t the point of the interview, just a sidebar that I was glib about. Along with a bunch of other topics I was glib about. They wouldn’t have used that?”

  Hilda said, “I think they did.”

  And they had.

  My public s
tance on arts funding had been consistent throughout my career and I’d expressed it many times. While I absolutely thought it was wise for the government to invest money in the arts and support the careers of artists in the same way they did for any other industry that brought money into the country, I also felt it was important that artists find a paying audience so they weren’t reliant on government resources for their livelihood—which could lead to all kinds of censorious complications depending on the government of the day (as I experienced repeatedly throughout my career). I’d been the recipient of the government’s largesse a few times in my career and was always appropriately grateful and careful to acknowledge it.

  Taken out of that context and without the nuance I usually brought to the subject, my comments seemed harsh and didn’t reflect my true opinion.

  I was stunned, unable to believe Toronto’s largest and most progressive newspaper would do such a thing. Hilda explained it had generated a lot of debate and angry discussion about Canadian artists betraying their own when I wasn’t around to respond.

  I had become accustomed to saying things that drew public ire. It always blew over. I shrugged the whole thing off. It was the Star’s fuck-up, not mine. People would see that.

  I was wrong, but I wouldn’t know it for a while yet.

  * * *

  —

  One bright afternoon, after my workout, I bought a Globe and Mail and went for lunch at the innocuous restaurant in the hotel around the corner from the gym. There were few things I loved more than a quiet lunch while thoroughly reading the paper. After I’d ordered I pulled the entertainment section out and saw the lesser headline lower on the front page—“Vancouver Actor John Moffat Dead of AIDS.”

  The restaurant was full of people chatting happily; Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” was playing, reminding me of everyone I had ever loved. A knot, a growth, a throbbing tumour of anger and sadness was swelling in my chest and I felt like I was going to choke. The words in the newspaper suddenly meant nothing, my lunch was sawdust in my mouth, my hands shook when I paid the bill, but I did not break.