Out of the Box

by Don Schecter

  “I’ll be right with you, sir,” the young man in the white coat said. He looked away from the old woman he was fitting glasses on. Although he continued to work on her, for certain he was distracted by me. His practiced hands went on adjusting her frames while his eyes stayed fixed in my direction. I smiled at him and it jarred him; he snapped his head back to the woman. She thanked him, paid him, and he walked her to the door. The chime sounded as they broke the light beam. But he kept looking at me.

  Following an audible sigh, he said, “At last. May I do something for you, sir?” His saying “sir” sent a little thrill through me.

  “You could do everything for me, son,” was the way it slipped out.

  “Pardon?” He blushed. It was sort of nice.

  “I think I need my eyes examined.” You look so goddamned juicy.

  “Come in back to the examination room and we’ll try to fix you up.”

  I’ll follow you anywhere.

  We all know what examination rooms look like. They’re confined places, crowded with lens cases and other paraphernalia of the trade. The doc sits at your knee and leans across your crotch to adjust things. He pokes around so close to your face that it takes an effort of will not to touch him— like in the barber shop where there’s plenty of opportunity to cop a feel.

  And I did…

  And he did…

  And in a few moments, we were in a potentially embarrassing situation if anyone was to walk in on us. “Don’t worry, I’ll hear the bell if the door opens,” Bill said. His name was Bill Baker. We had introduced ourselves before we started groping. After all, our mothers brought us up right.

  We were acting like two kids—in a truly irresponsible manner. So I said, “Well, Bill. Much as I want to continue this examination, I think we better get down to real business.

  I need glasses, and I’ve got a real nice house down the street where we would have a lot more privacy.”

  “Okay, Sam,” he said, readjusting his solid red four-in-hand, “but when we’re finished looking at your eyes, just go up the stairs to my apartment and I’ll be right with you. Have you time?”

  “I’ll make time.”

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  I told him, and mostly kept my hands to myself so he could do his job. When Bill was done, he agreed my lenses were all wrong for me. My astigmatism had increased in both eyes, and I was getting more nearsighted.

  “As long as I have to get new glasses, how about contacts? You know, at my age every little bit helps.”

  “I don’t recommend them, Sam. At your age, men are getting rid of contacts. As you get older, your eyes tend to dry out, and wearing contacts becomes more difficult.”

  “How about those new kinds I read about?”

  “Same-o, same-o. You need real motivation to get accustomed to them, and I don’t think the chances of success are very great.”

  “Would give me a lot of excuses to see you, while you’re making them work,” I ventured.

  Bill laughed. “The store isn’t where I want to see you, Sam. And I hope you feel the same.”

  “You’re the doctor.” Just then the door chimed.

  “Be with you in a moment,” he called out.

  He finished the exam with all due haste now that we knew what we had ahead of us, and we went back up front where another customer was looking at sunglasses in the showcase.

  Bill selected a wire frame for me because the new lenses wouldn’t fit the old one, saying in a very professional tone, “These will enhance your rugged good looks.” He winked, and then directed me up the stairs to his apartment. He softly whispered, “Take a nap on the bed. I’ll close the store and be up as soon as I’m done here.”

  I found the bedroom. The king-size bed looked good, so I sat down and bounced on it for a bit. I heard the chime again, and figured he’d be right up, but five minutes passed and Bill didn’t show. Hell, must have been another customer coming in. Then I got the idea of stripping naked and surprising him, so I hurried-like threw my clothes on the chair and got under the covers. But Bill was slow in coming— must be closing up—so I picked up a magazine and started to read. Wow, my head swirled! My pupils were still dilated from the exam. I closed my eyes and I guess I must have nodded off ’cause when I opened them again, Bill was coming through the door with a big shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Hey, old-timer. Taking a nap?”

  “Yeah, I must’a,” I said, a little mistily.

  He pulled his maroon patterned tie over his head without unknotting it. Damn my eyes, I could have sworn it was red…and solid. Then he unbuttoned his shirt. As he opened it over his shoulders, I could see a big field of what I wanted come exposed. His chest was large, like a weightlifter out of training, smooth as could be, with two great nubbins of brown that I couldn’t hardly wait to get my tongue on. He stepped out of his shoes and pants, and slipped under the covers with me.

  “Ouch, Sam!” He recoiled as I touched him. “Your hands are like ice.”

  He took hold of them and clamped them both between his thighs. “There, that’s better. Hey, Sam. Don’t look now but you’re still wearing your glasses. Since my hands were in the oven, Bill said, “Here, let me.” He slipped my frames off and whistled.

  “You’d look great in contacts.”

  “I thought you said they weren’t good at my age?”

  “I did? Oh, well, I meant it’s too bad, because you’re too handsome to hide your face behind frames.”

  “Guess your bedside manner’s different from your office behavior, huh?”

  “Guess so. In the store I never do this.” And he started to kiss me all over my face, at the same time spreading his thighs so my hands were free to feel the warmth and weight of his big, beautiful balls.

  “Man, you’re built, Sam. Those workouts in the gym have made you hard as a rock.”

  Reaching lower, he added, “and these workouts in bed keep you that way, I see.” He ducked his head under the covers just as the bedroom door opened again, and the Bill in my bed entered the room a second time. My eyes! I shook my head to clear my vision.

  I’m seeing double!

  “Bob Baker! What the heck are you doing?” Bill called from the doorway. “I thought I told you to tell Sam I’d be up in a few more minutes.”

  The Bill in my bed giggled like a wicked kid. His head popped over the blanket. “I couldn’t resist, Bill, honest. This beautiful guy was naked under the covers. You can’t blame me.” Turning to me, he added, “And you didn’t mind a bit, did you, Sam?”

  “What’s going on, guys?” But I was catching on fast.

  The Bill at the door answered. “Sam, you’re in bed with my twin. We’ve been double-teaming professors and dates ever since college. Bob has the antique shop next door, and just dropped in after closing. I couldn’t get that last customer out the door fast enough, so I sent him up here to keep you company.”

  “And he did that, all right,” I said.

  “I hope you don’t mind,” the twins said as one.

  “Listen guys, I don’t know Bill or Bob from Adam. I got myself into this bed because I like your looks. So it’s just double my pleasure, like that chewing gum commercial. Come on Bill, strip off your duds and get in here on the other side of me. I want to be the hot dog in a Baker-boys bun.”

  After about a half-hour of a-slippin’ and a-slidin’ with two of the most compatible playmates I ever had, Bill said to me, “Sam, your glasses will be ready in three days. But I think you need to come in each day to check on them.”

  “Are you sure I don’t need contacts?”

  Hypocritic Oath

  After Danny died, when his body was in the ground and the funeral was over, while my life was on hold and waiting to start up again, I decided to take a trip to visit Dr. Fred.

  Fred Lindsey had been our doctor before Danny showed his first symptom of HIV.

  He was our friend and our doctor, a great guy. He worked long hours, drove him
self to exhaustion; and still found time to champion causes by lending himself and his name to raising community awareness of AIDS. In 1985, in Trenton, New Jersey, gays were just coming to grips with what lay in store for them. Dr. Fred understood it well, one of the first who did; and he cautioned all his patients—me and Danny included—to get tested and play safe.

  Neither Danny nor I liked the sound of that very much. If we were going to die, we didn’t want to know about it. Besides, we had been monogamous for the year after we moved in together. But because we were pretty prolific before we met each other, or ever heard of HIV, we agreed with Dr. Fred that it was probably a good idea for us to play it safe and use condoms anyway.

  I’d been with Danny for a year and a half—we had just celebrated our first anniversary living together—when he came down with the cold from hell, a cold that wouldn't go away. An active man of fifty, he got tired of always feeling weak and listless, so I persuaded him to see Dr. Fred. The doc put Danny on a long list of meds—I assumed antibiotics—and Danny was soon recovered and back at work.

  Dr. Fred didn’t have much of a social life—it seemed he was always on-call—so Danny and I didn’t know much more about him than he and his lover made a good team in the office. Jerry kept the doctor’s appointments and also his social schedule; he made sure Fred had time between office, hospital, and speaking engagements to rest enough to recoup his energy; and that usually meant saying no to the many social invitations that poured in for dinners and parties. Despite Jerry’s best efforts, it was all work and no play for Fred, which led to two minor heart attacks by age thirty-five, followed by a decision to quit private practice and move south where he could do less stressful work for a state health organization. He didn’t want to risk a third attack. We all understood. It was that or the world would lose a good doctor.

  So six months later, when Danny caught another cold, Fred wasn’t around anymore to treat him. Instead, he saw Merv Foreman, the young doctor who had bought Fred’s practice. Dr. Fred, good man that he was, told each and every patient that he had total confidence in Merv, whom he had hand-picked. He advised us to continue on as usual, and since Fred left his patient records with his replacement, he said we would hardly notice a difference.

  Well, there was a difference; several, in fact. One was obvious: Merv was black.

  That may have bothered some patients but I doubt too many cared. Before the switch, the office was always lined with men in advanced stages of AIDS, who didn’t have the strength or inclination to go find another doctor. I hated going there because I was in the pink—thirty years old, six feet tall, one-hundred-eighty pounds, toned by athletics and free weights—so I waited my turn in self-conscious embarrassment because I held the monopoly on health in the waiting room. I could almost hear them thinking I used to look like that; or cursing me out: lucky bastard.

  The second difference was that, although Dr. Fred and Jerry were openly gay, Merv absolutely refused to come down on either side of the question when asked. He just didn’t feel, as a matter of ethics and policy, that the question was appropriate between doctor and patient. I was curious, but I had to agree it made no nevermind in the long run.

  And a third difference was that, whereas Dr. Fred had an amazing ability to explain in simple terms what you suffered from and how he was treating you, Merv was blunt and to the point. Not harsh, but factual—not given to buttering over the hard truths.

  Danny went in with a cold and came home in a state of deep shock. Merv told him he had AIDS.

  “We’ll see another doctor, get another opinion,” I said when I recovered from the surprise.

  “What’s the point?” Danny asked. “I’m done for, as good as dead.”

  “Don’t be an ass, Danny. You’ve got a cold just like last time. How could he know? You’ve never been tested.”

  “I don’t know how he knows, but does it matter? He’s sending away a blood sample to be sure.”

  “Then let’s not worry about it until it gets confirmed.”

  “Sure. Makes no difference. Too late to close the barn door now.”

  Danny slept soundly that night on a sedative Merv had prescribed, while I lay awake and stared at the ceiling. Danny and I are monogamous. How could he come down with HIV and not me…! Was it from before? Has he been cheating? Thank God we use condoms…but we didn’t before we lived together. What’s the incubation period? It’s been more than a year…. I didn’t close my eyes a wink that night. The more I thought, the more questions I had. As soon as the office opened the next day, I called and made an appointment.

  “Hi Russ, what brings you back so soon?” Merv consulted my chart. “You had a check-up just two weeks ago.”

  “I’m here to talk about Danny. He’s already planning his funeral. Will you tell me about it?”

  “Not much to tell. It’s certainly not unexpected. Danny’s immune system is very compromised.”

  “How do you know that? Why isn’t it a shock to you? It sure as hell is one to us.”

  “Danny tested positive in ’85. He probably was one of the first cases in Trenton.”

  “Not possible,” I denied flatly. “You can’t know that; he’s never been tested.”

  Merv just looked at me, deciding which way to go next. “Let me get his file; I can show you.” He returned with a folder slightly thicker than mine, opened it, pulled out a page and pointed to the lower right corner. “See that…the plus-sign followed by a date? Danny had an HIV test in September ’85. That’s how Dr. Fred made the notation on his patients’ records.”

  “I can’t believe that; we talked about it and Danny was the one who talked me out of getting tested; we both decided we didn’t want to know.” I was dumbfounded. Then a light went on. “And that’s just about when we moved in together. If he knew, how come he didn’t tell me?” I answered my own question. “Oh, I see. That’s why he agreed to use condoms. That son of a bitch. I’ll kill him, the bastard.”

  “But you always used condoms…right? Your file says you tested negative that same month.”

  “Doc, you gotta believe me, Neither Danny nor I has ever been tested. How can my chart have a notation?”

  “I can’t answer that. It’s not legal to test patients without their permission. Are you absolutely sure? Perhaps you agreed and forgot….But what difference does it make as long as you were negative and used condoms.”

  My jaw dropped; my hand covered my mouth. “New Year’s Eve. Last New Year’s. We came home drunk out of our minds, smoked a joint, and then had some rough sex. In a few minutes, Danny stood up and dangled a shredded condom in front of me. ‘It’s broke,’ he said. And he had come. We laughed hysterically about it.”

  Merv looked at me again while he did some thinking. “That changes things, Russ. Danny is sick and we’ll try to get him better, but now we have to determine your status as well. Roll up your sleeve.”

  I did the stupid lover thing and went home and accused Danny of everything from lying to me to trying to kill me. He was distraught. My anger was not helping him one bit. After the hundredth time he professed ignorance, we collapsed exhausted into each other’s arms and became as affectionate as we could, considering the jolts we had both received. It seemed an eternity, but six days later I got a call from Merv, and he informed me I was positive as well. A second test confirmed the fact. What a mess our lives had become.

  The next year and a half—Danny’s final year and a half—was the worst of our lives.

  We had to learn all there was to know about our disease—which was damned little; but most important, we learned to forgive each other. We recognized that we would need support and care, and we swore to be there for each other. As it happened, that responsibility fell to me because, when Merv directed us to Johns Hopkins, where they were administering an experimental protocol to a large test group, Danny didn’t pass the physical. They were only accepting into the program men who were HIV positive, but not yet manifesting symptoms of AIDS. By that time,
Danny had several Kaposi sarcomas on his body, so he didn’t qualify.

  I was given a combination of drugs happily nicknamed the “cocktail.” Its composition sometimes varied but, except for one formulation that nauseated me, I thrived on the protocol. Danny, however, slipped quickly downhill. He retired from his job on medical disability, and blessedly found he had a health insurance policy which was one of the few that automatically covered AIDS, and that he could keep it in force after retirement. But, unfortunately, he was one of those unlucky people who reacted badly to the medications. AZT tore him up to the point that he often said he preferred death to feeling so rotten alive. He lost weight, came down with the usual list of AIDS-related illnesses, and his T-cell count hit bottom and stubbornly refused to rise. I fed him, washed him, carried him to the toilet, and read to him. I felt that same embarrassment I felt in Dr. Fred’s office, almost ashamed to be so glowingly healthy as I held Danny’s wasted body close to me, and let him run his hands over me. It wasn’t a sexual thing at all; it was a memory thing. He was feeling how things used to be, and it made him happy to remember.

  I had my own small construction business, mostly subcontracting for the city, so my time was very flexible. That allowed me to spend many hours at Danny’s side. His parents, and various sisters and brothers with their families, stopped in periodically to bolster him; but essentially the burden was mine.

  “You’re doing well, Russ,” they told me. “Danny is lucky to have someone like you to care for him. It’s a lovely house. It’s such a shame about Danny; but of course you can go on living here as long as you like.”

  I heard, but I didn’t listen. There were too many more important things to think about in the next five months, or five minutes. I considered Danny’s house our home, but I had no legal title to it. There was plenty of time to make a will, but we never even considered one. Talking about a will meant talking about death; besides, I was self-supporting, and Danny’s family treated me like another son or brother.