Blink

by Rick R. Reed

  “Just a minute, boy. Just let me check this one thing.”

  He gives out a sharp meow, which is almost a bark, and which I interpret as “Okay, but just one.”

  Finally my home screen comes up, and I bypass checking my e-mail, even though I know Facebook would have forwarded any messages there as well, and go directly to the social media presence of the twenty-first century.

  My heart skips a beat when I see the little red box next to the message icon at the top of the Facebook page, indicating I do have a message. Really? That fast? I tell myself to be calm. The message could be from Jules, or Tate, or one of the guys I met at the Printers Row book fair last summer whom I promised to meet for coffee but never have, even though we always comment on each other’s postings.

  Hand almost trembling, I move the mouse to click on the red box.

  I close my eyes. I am not sure whether to smile and jump up and dance.

  The message is from Carlos.

  I open it and read:

  Hey. Thanks for your message. Would you be able to meet up with me for coffee after work tonight at Jumpy on Lincoln Avenue, near the Jewel? Say five-ish?

  There’s nothing else. I was expecting at least an “I remember you.” But if he didn’t remember me, why would he want to meet? Of course I’ll meet him. I type in a quick reply.

  “I’ll be there.” I’m tempted to add something silly along the lines of “I’ll be the one with a gardenia behind my ear and smoking a cigar” but opt to leave it as is. The hardest thing for me to accept is that I’m still not sure this is my Carlos.

  I wonder how I’ll make it through the day. You know, being the impatient sort….

  CHAPTER 9: CARLOS

  “HEY, CARLOS, can you help me with something?” my assistant, Joel, calls from outside my office. Joel has worked with me at Angels, an AIDS charity, for the past ten years, and is, by necessity, a jack-of-all-trades. It’s how it works for most everyone on staff here. Joel, for example, proofreads the newsletter on HIV awareness I put together every month. He bags meals for the folks we deliver them to. And he answers the phone, directing our clients to the pair of caseworkers we have on staff.

  I get up from my cluttered desk and look at Joel, standing near the back door. He’s such a handsome guy, all of thirty, with dark brown hair he wears buzzed close to his skull, a thick beard, and tattoos just about everywhere I can see. Sigh. If I were only a few years younger, I would break the rules about fraternizing with employees, but I know better.

  “What is it?” I ask, knowing it could be anything. There’s someone in the lobby who refuses to speak to anyone but the person in charge. Or maybe there’s a donor who has a bagful of cash he’s itching to give to us to keep us afloat in this age when people have pretty much forgotten about AIDS, unless directly affected. Perhaps it’s yet another employee ready to give notice because he or she has found higher-paying work elsewhere.

  Like McDonald’s.

  “Some guy dropped by with books for the library. There’s, like, fourteen boxes. Do you think you could help me carry them in? I can take care of sorting and shelving at some point.”

  We have a small library, which started out as being resources on AIDS and HIV and has grown now into two rooms that encompass all things gay-related, including romances and mysteries.

  I take off the plaid short-sleeve shirt I wore and meet Joel by the back door, where he’s already stacked the boxes. Our donor has taken off.

  “Look at you in your tight white T!” Joel grins, squatting to hoist one of the boxes up to his shoulder. His biceps bulge. “Oh, Papi.” He leers and gives me a wink. “When are you gonna go out with me?”

  I shake my head and laugh. We’ve had this conversation before. He knows I’d never date anyone associated with Angels, client or employee. It happened once, back when I first started—and look how that turned out. My mood darkens for an instant, like a cloud passing over the sun. I force memories away and make myself smile. “Maybe if you didn’t call me Papi you’d stand a chance. Makes me feel like an old man.” I pick up one of the other boxes, being careful to lift from my legs and not my back. I head inside with Joel behind me.

  “But I like older guys!” Joel protests, laughing. I notice he’s breathing easy while I am already huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf. “And you’re super hot.”

  “For an old man?” I sling the box down on a table in the room we grandly call our library and realize I’m out of breath.

  “Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

  I roll my eyes and keep to myself that there’s no worse compliment than being told you’re hot “for your age.” Why can’t a person just be hot? Period. To keep things short and simple, all I say is, “Nothing, nothing at all.”

  Joel is raring to go get the next box, eyes bright, energized. I envy him. I’m in pretty good shape—wait for it—for my age, which isn’t that far away from the dreaded sixty, and unlike many of my contemporaries, I still have all my hair, even though it’s silver, and my weight, aside from a few pounds I can’t seem to get rid of, is pretty close to ideal.

  “Tell you what. You bring in half the boxes, and I’ll bring in the other half real soon.”

  Joel cocks his head at me, looking, I guess, for an explanation for why we just can’t finish the job together.

  “I just remembered I need to make a phone call.”

  He nods. I’m glad he didn’t force me to tell him the truth—that carrying in all those heavy boxes would pretty much wipe me out for the morning, if not for the day. I know Joel well enough—his work ethic, his desire to please me—to know he’ll bring in all the boxes himself.

  I leave him to it.

  I head back to my office and sit down in the creaking leather chair that’s always been mine. It has an indentation that perfectly fits my butt, and on one side, I’ve had to patch it with duct tape.

  The joys of working for a nonprofit.

  The truth was Joel made me think of Harry, and I needed to get back in here, alone, so I could remember him and, if I needed to, shed a few tears. The tears come with decreasing frequency when I recall the man I lived with, the man I loved for a very long time, but they still come—often out of nowhere, when the least little thing reminds me of my lover.

  They’re like Harry himself was—always able to surprise me.

  At my desk I take a few calming breaths, deep in and out, waiting, testing my emotions to see if the tears will come, if a choked sob will escape me.

  But neither arrives. I’m both relieved and disappointed.

  Relieved because I don’t have to worry about Joel walking in on me and catching me blubbering. The big young guy would feel compelled to wrap me up in his massive arms and press me to his chest, which would ignite all sorts of emotions, mostly contradictory, and at this stage of my life, unwelcome.

  Disappointed because the dry eyes and the relative composure may indicate the void Harry left behind when he died from pancreatic cancer two years ago is lessening. I know there will always be a hole where Harry once was, but the hole is also getting smaller. It’s like a wound where a scab eventually formed, and now the scab is turning to scar tissue. It will always be there, but it’s a little more bearable, which makes me both grateful and sad.

  I look out my window, which overlooks the back of the building and our small parking lot, and watch as Joel bustles in and out with the boxes, lifting them as though they’re empty. I nod to myself as I see that, in short order, he’s got all the boxes inside.

  Joel is a good guy. Most of the people who work here—Grace and Paulo, our caseworkers; Gabby, the administrative assistant; and Bryan, our accountant—are. They’re people who could probably make a lot more money doing something easier and less draining, but they choose to be here. To help. To, in a small way, make a difference. Even though the call for our services has been drastically reduced by medications that have given the HIV afflicted new leases on life, it continues to be a problem. Medications are t
oo expensive. People are still poor. The unknowingly infected still wait too long. Newbies need guidance through the labyrinth of limited medical and social services that can help them before it’s too late.

  I work with good people. That’s what keeps me here. That’s why I left teaching to work here, God, back in 1991. Back when AIDS was a death sentence and the need for our services was far greater than it is today. It was a different world then. I glance over my shoulder at the huge corkboard I have hanging there, crowded with snapshots of mostly young men, but some women and even kids mixed in. These are the ones who didn’t hang on long enough to see the dawn of drug cocktails that would make their virus a “manageable” disease. These are my angels, and I keep their faces there to remind me of how tenuous our grasp on life is—and how even if our time on earth is abbreviated, we can still make a difference, have an impact.

  I remember every one of their names and every story that goes with it.

  Eight years after I joined the team here at Angels, I met Harry. And even though I broke a cardinal rule, I “fraternized” with a client. I remember that afternoon in autumn like it was yesterday. It’s funny how the significant moments in our life stay so fresh in our minds.

  We were in a different office then, up in Rogers Park. A client had left us their condo with views of Lake Michigan, and we took advantage and got out of our roach-infested storefront in Humboldt Park.

  The day was crisp and clear, sunny, the sky blue as it can only be in early fall. My office was in one of three bedrooms, and I was lucky: I faced the water. That day the sun and sky merged to create a panorama that was almost tropical. It was near the end of the day, a Friday, and a few folks had cut out early to enjoy the politically incorrect Indian summer weekend in store.

  Mary Lee, a black woman who towered over even me, at six foot plus, was one of our caseworkers then. Out, proud, and beautiful, Mary Lee was always just at the beginning of yet another relationship with yet another supermodel-looking woman. Mary Lee’s heart was tough, because it always seemed like she was the one who was inevitably dumped. It never dampened her optimism, and she was like a schoolgirl on her first day at the beginning of each new relationship. Hope was an emotion that, for Mary Lee, was inextinguishable.

  Today was no exception. She bounded into my office, a big smile on her face, warm brown eyes beseeching.

  “You look like a billion bucks,” I said. She had been dressed in a long white linen tunic, stretch pants, and ballet flats. Thin pewter hoops nearly brushed her shoulders.

  “It’s a million, Carlos, but thank you.”

  I shrugged. “Inflation.”

  She giggled, belying her Amazon size. “Can I ask you a huge favor, sweetie?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Got a date? First time? You want out early?”

  She neared my desk. “Would you mind ever so? I mean, we only have a couple hours left. And you should see her! Lord, makes Cindy Crawford look like Hermione Gingold.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Cindy Crawford?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “Google her and you’ll get the power of my comparison. I simply must look gorgeous for her. I need the extra time!”

  “You need nothin’, and you know it.”

  “You’re too sweet. If I was straight and you were straight—”

  “We’d be a match made in heaven,” I finished for her. “Go on, get out of here, you big lipstick lesbian!”

  She started toward the door, grinning, then halted. “There’s just one thing.”

  I shook my head. “I knew it.”

  “I have a client coming in. He was supposed to have been here already, but he’s late, and I can’t afford to wait around for him. Can you deliver his test results?”

  My mood darkened just a little. “Good news or bad news?”

  Mary Lee said softly, “He’s poz, but sweetie, we both know that’s not as bad news as it once was.”

  “Still, it’s life changing for anyone who gets that word.”

  “I know I can count on you to be sensitive.”

  “It’s my middle name.” I smiled. “It’s all right. I’ve done this talk enough times to know how it goes. I’ll be firm, caring, and attentive.”

  “You always are. I mean it!”

  “I know. Bring me his file before you leave.”

  Thirty minutes later, when Harry waltzed into my office, I was immediately fascinated but had no idea he was going to be the man I’d spend the next dozen or so years with. I mean, Harry was nothing like the kind of guy I usually went for—brooding, quiet types, usually Hispanic or Mediterranean or Italian. Butch. Muscles and facial hair.

  Over and over, I’d attempted to find my Prince Charming among their hirsute, beefy ranks and always came up empty-handed. There had been plenty of Mr. Right Nows in my life but no Mr. Rights.

  You’d think I would have learned.

  But Harry? My God, Harry looked like he was barely legal. On a good day, maybe, you might estimate him as being a very recent high school graduate. He had pale freckled skin and a shock of red hair that stuck up in bedhead fashion all over his head. He wore thick glasses that I suppose might be called retro now, but they just made him look like a geek. He was skinny as hell, his jeans hung loose around his waist, and the red Keith Haring “Radiant Baby” T-shirt clashed with his hair.

  What a character. I wished I didn’t have to deliver this news to him. I glanced down at his file, open on my desk, and was stunned to see he was thirty. Still, too young….

  He plopped down in the chair across from me, swinging one leg over its arm. Before I even had a chance to introduce myself, he asked, “So what’s the good word? Two snaps up? In a circle?”

  I laughed, remembering the horridly effeminate film critics, Blaine and Antoine, from In Living Color. Even though their shtick should have been wildly offensive, all the gay men I knew just loved it. The video bar, Sidetrack, to this day played clips of them to thunderous laughter. But my laughter died quickly on my lips as I realized that Harry, real name Harold Goldblum, was here to get a thumbs-down on his test results.

  My lack of a quick response caused Harry to cock his head. “What? You’re not saying anything. Listen, I have been getting tested every six months since I became sexually active, and it’s to my great sadness that I use that term loosely, but I always come up negative. Because negative is usually the response I get when I proposition a guy.” He snorted, but I could see the fear in his bright blue eyes.

  I opened my mouth to speak, for once at a loss in this situation, when Harry stood up. “Let’s start over.”

  I watched as he walked backward out of my office and disappeared. I leaned forward to see where he had gone, a little panicked that he had perhaps fled the building.

  But then he walked right back in, looking more composed. He sat down in the chair across from me and folded his hands on his lap, staring at me.

  I didn’t say anything. Neither of us did as the minutes ticked by.

  “This is where you introduce yourself,” he whispered to me, like someone offstage helping a fellow actor remember his lines.

  “I’m sorry! I’m Carlos. I just want to share with you—”

  He cut me off. “Ah, come on, Carlos. I’m a perceptive guy. The fear on your face gave you away. I’m poz, right? You did all the testing and retesting and there’s next-to-no doubt.” As Harry spoke, the words came faster and faster. He had a big smile plastered on his face, yet there were tears in his eyes. “You’re here to tell me that HIV does not have to be a death sentence. With medication, there’s no reason I can’t have a full and healthy life.” He let out a yip of near-hysterical laughter. “I can go horseback riding, swim, play volleyball. This doesn’t mean I won’t be able to have children.” He bent his head, and I wasn’t sure if he was laughing or sobbing.

  I got up, came around the desk, put my hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. He reached up and grabbed my hand.

  We
said nothing for a long time. Finally he flicked my hand away like it was a bug and looked up at me, smiling. Only traces of tears remained on his face, the pale, almost white eyelashes a little damp. “The fellas never paid much attention to me before. Now I’ll never get a date. Guess it’s time to go to PetSmart and get that guinea pig I always thought about. I think I’ll call him Elmer.”

  I couldn’t help it—that last line made me laugh. I returned to my side of the desk and sat. “Listen, Harry, what you said is true.” I opened a drawer, pulled out a sheet of paper, and handed it across the desk to him. “You may be happy with your own physician, but the docs on that list are specialists in HIV, and I suggest you make an appointment with one of them. They’ll do more blood work to determine if you need to go on medication yet and what kind. It’s true what you said—it’s manageable now. I know people who have had the virus for a decade and have never been sick.”

  “And you know lots of guys who have croaked too.”

  “I do. But that’s happening less and less.”

  Harry ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more. “No one will want to go out with me now.”

  “Harry, do you know how many guys out there are poz? Hell, there’s even a dating website called Poz Personals.”

  “Really?”

  I couldn’t tell from his expression if he was excited or dismayed by the prospect.

  “How ’bout you?” he challenged. “Would you go out with me?”

  I chuckled, thinking the question was hypothetical. “Sure I would. You’re a cutie.”

  “Ah, that’s what they all say. Just once I’d like to hear ‘handsome’ or ‘studly.’” He sighed. “Instead I get cute or, worse, interesting.”

  We were quiet for a moment, and then Harry leaned forward and asked, “When?”

  I thought he meant when he should see a doctor. “Oh, I would think it’d be a good idea to make it soon.”

  “How about tonight?”

  I laughed and then stopped abruptly when I realized his “would you go out with me” had not been hypothetical. I was flustered. The long weekend ahead of me stretched out, no plans. How could I back gracefully out of this? I couldn’t go out with him, could I? It was against all the rules; I didn’t date clients.