by Tommy Murphy
JOHN. You haven’t.
TIM. Have. At the gym.
JOHN. Oh, yeah. I think Mum wanted to cry but she wasn’t going to in front of anyone else. It might be better I leave them alone tonight. To talk and all.
TIM. Slumber party? Mum set up the sunroom – of course.
JOHN. Cool.
TIM. Could sneak back in here later like old times. Bloody sunroom. You’re not my girlfriend home from the social. Reckon Mum’d beg Juliet to share a bed with me now. I’m still in grade nine but Anna gets trumpeters and a banquet.
JOHN. What’s your gripe with Anna?
TIM. I think I need to tell them.
JOHN. About what?
TIM. About my status.
JOHN. Tim. You can’t.
TIM. Why?
JOHN. The wedding. You can’t do it the week of Anna’s wedding.
TIM. I know that. I know. But it’s coming. And how much preparation can I do? I can’t read every book and ask every counsellor. I’m just nervous about the wedding; being in front of all those people. And today I read… I read something today…
JOHN. Where?
TIM. I’m reading that book is all. It’s actually called Telling Your Parents You Have HIV.
JOHN. I am reeling from Mum and Dad, Tim. Please don’t be selfish.
TIM. What?
JOHN. When the time’s right. This isn’t just a single conversation. This isn’t one piece of info. This is telling them everything. They’ll want to know everything. What, are you going to paint a picture of your seizure – tell them you were on the floor of the toilet – in a puddle of piss and shit looking over your shoulder and twitching? You going to give them that image to take into Anna’s wedding?
TIM. I’m not going to do it the week of the wedding.
JOHN. Or the week that I tell mine.
TIM. My ears are burning. Your parents are at home saying I infected you and –
JOHN. There was no discussion about who infected who.
TIM. Cell counts can be wrong. I know you don’t believe it. I know you blame me.
JOHN. Don’t tell me what I know.
TIM. What if there was a way to determine who infected who? You’d want to know, John.
JOHN. I don’t want you to undermine my positive thinking.
TIM. Err, that’s from that play.
JOHN. What?
TIM. That Alex Harding play we saw.
JOHN. I liked that play. They didn’t believe they were going to die from this.
TIM. Do you?
JOHN. No, I don’t
TIM. Is that why we haven’t made a will?
JOHN. Maybe we should.
TIM. One problem is I’ve got nothing to leave you. You can have my clothes but most of them are yours. It’s shit. And anything I treasure was a gift from you anyway.
Enter MARY-GERT.
MARY-GERT. There’s the Mercurochrome for your leg.
TIM. Thanks. It’s tiny. (To JOHN.) You do it, John.
MARY-GERT. I’m glad you opened your letters.
TIM. Just leave them. I read them. (To JOHN.) On my calf. It’s dried up anyway.
JOHN puts the antiseptic ointment on TIM.
JOHN. I’ll draw a smiley face.
MARY-GERT. I put them in your book on your bag.
TIM. I am reading that for my work.
MARY-GERT. I know… I assumed that.
TIM. I should help you with your platters.
MARY-GERT. Yes. Flat out…
TIM. I like the smoked salmon one best.
MARY-GERT. Yes.
TIM. Could I have lunch with you and Dad tomorrow?
MARY-GERT. We’ll all have lunch at some stage.
TIM. No. Just the three of us.
JOHN. Tim.
MARY-GERT (calling out to DICK). Dick.
TIM. No, don’t get him.
MARY-GERT. Tell me everything’s all right.
JOHN. Tim.
TIM. No, it’s okay.
Enter DICK.
MARY-GERT. Tim wants to talk about something.
DICK. Oh, what now, Timothy?
TIM. I just want to talk about something.
DICK. Go on then.
TIM. No, not now. Tomorrow. We’ll have lunch.
DICK. You’ll make madam fret. Tell us now, Tim.
TIM. I’ll discuss it tomorrow.
DICK. No. Go on. Tell us.
TIM. Well, come sit down.
JOHN. Tim.
TIM. Do you want to stay?
JOHN (to TIM). You grab me if you want me.
JOHN exits.
TIM. Come sit, Mum. There’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for some time but didn’t think I could. I love you and I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you. John and I have HIV, the virus that can cause AIDS.
MARY-GERT. What a waste. All that talent.
TIM. I’m not dead yet.
DICK. How long have you boys known?
TIM. We were tested five years ago. That’s when we were tested.
DICK. And how is your health?
TIM. Mine’s pretty good but John’s is failing. He’s already had pneumonia.
MARY-GERT. That beautiful boy. I knew something was up. He doesn’t look well. I said that.
DICK. What does it mean? Do you have AIDS?
TIM. No. I have HIV. I think it would be a good idea… They have counsellors, at the AIDS Council, where I work.
DICK. This is a terrible blow.
MARY-GERT. I knew there was something because you were spending so much money on travel. Italy and then Bali. We didn’t even get to see photos of Italy.
TIM. We stopped taking them. I have one: John with this disgusting sore on his face standing in front of Michelangelo’s Pietà. He got a fever. We barely saw Florence. We came home early.
MARY-GERT. But I don’t understand how you got it. If it’s just you and John –
TIM. We both have it.
DICK. Yes.
TIM. John has had to leave his clinic.
MARY-GERT. God help us.
TIM. He was too sick to cope with patients’ questions. My suppressor cells are at a good stage and my other cells are basically good.
MARY-GERT. We don’t know what any of that means.
DICK. I am going to go for a drive. Think I might.
MARY-GERT. Oh. You sure, dear?
DICK. I think I want to. I’ll buy the cherries.
MARY-GERT. Okay, dear.
DICK exits.
I think you’ll be comfortable in here. I put an extra blanket on.
TIM. I think you should see the counsellor. I can arrange it through work.
MARY-GERT. Okay, Tim.
TIM. Dad won’t.
MARY-GERT. No. Probably he’ll decline.
TIM. That’s okay.
MARY-GERT. I should sew this hem. So much to do. Anna’s got dinner underway. A difficult week.
TIM. I opened those letters this morning. I read the letters and –
MARY-GERT. Good.
TIM. Mum. The letters were chasing me up… I made a blood donation in June 1981. It was pooled with nineteen others. I’m one of the last to be contacted. The patient who received the blood has developed AIDS and I might have given it to this poor person. I had a strange viral thing back in ’81. I think that may have been my seroconversion.
MARY-GERT. What does this mean?
TIM. I’ve had it for nine years, not five, Mum. So I had to tell you.
MARY-GERT. I see.
TIM. And it means I probably infected John.
MARY-GERT. I see.
TIM. They want a written response. I’ll write to the blood bank and tell them everything – that I was tested positive in ’85.
MARY-GERT. And that you didn’t know. How could you know? Nobody knew then.
TIM. I can’t tell John now. I don’t want to share this letter with him tonight. I was comfortable with the thought John had infected me, but it’s awful to think I may have infected him
. As though I’ve killed the man I love. (Aside.) I never wrote the letter to the Red Cross.
Four
The Stables Theatre. ACTORS and the DIRECTOR sit on mismatched chairs.
THEATRE DIRECTOR. Is all our company met? Not quite. Ah, Tim! Here he is: the playwright. Excellent.
TIM. Hello.
Hellos.
Sorry I’m late, everyone. I’ve had this lurgy. I woke up with a fever and could barely get up. Sorry.
THEATRE DIRECTOR. Great. Hope you’re better.
TIM. Keep your distance.
THEATRE DIRECTOR. Okay. Now, we had been talking generally about the play and your wonderful changes for our staged reading. Sit there, Tim.
One spare chair is for TIM but strangely it is a wheelchair.
TIM. In that?
THEATRE DIRECTOR. Sure. Gia, you said –
ACTOR ONE. Me? Oh, just a small thing really, um, about whether the subject matter of your play is right.
TIM. Oh, okay.
ACTOR ONE. It’s just that maybe the next thing you write, maybe that should be of a world you really know about.
THEATRE DIRECTOR. Yes, okay. And Ben, what did you make of Tim’s play?
TIM’s chair is unstable.
TIM. Sorry, is my chair rolling?
THEATRE DIRECTOR. You right, Tim?
TIM. Yeah.
ACTOR TWO. It was unclear to me whether you’d moved your bowels today? I couldn’t tell really.
TIM. Pardon? My chair’s rolling.
ACTOR THREE. Your haemoglobin is still good. Very good.
TIM (the wheelchair). Are there brakes?
THEATRE DIRECTOR (the rehearsal). At eleven. You right?
ACTOR ONE. Your T-cell count reads as three hundred and seventy.
TIM. Why has it been cut?
THEATRE DIRECTOR. We wanted to make some cuts.
TIM. Am I late? Where’s John?
ACTOR THREE. He’s gone, mate. You okay?
ACTOR TWO. Nurse?!
THEATRE DIRECTOR (to ACTOR TWO). Remember to breathe.
TIM. Fuck. John’s hurt. He’s broken his leg on the top oval playing footy. His mum and dad and Father Wallbridge are at the hospital now, turning off the life-support machine. Dreamer. I’m too hot. No more warm-ups. Excuse me, I’m in the middle of a workshop of a play, my play, I wrote it and tomorrow is the last day’s rehearsal yesterday or a decade ago.
ACTOR THREE. You have some leukoplakia on the side of your tongue.
ACTOR ONE. We think it is Epstein-Barr virus, we’re having the dramaturg look at it.
ACTOR TWO. When it presents as oral hairy leukoplakia it’s considered an AIDS-defining illness.
TIM. Did he say AIDS? Right, it’s AIDS everyone, not just HIV, note exposition to heal before opening night with the sleep of the dead, but, fuck, it’s thirty-nine-point-four degrees celsius o’clock and when’s Monday? If you feel right by then, I’ll be happy for you to go. Oh, thank you. Can you stick your hands in your head? Oh no.
ACTOR ONE. The critic who did your bronchoscopy said he saw cysts that are consistent with PCP.
THEATRE DIRECTOR. I think we should start with a fantastic –
ACTOR THREE. – course of Pentamidine.
ACTOR ONE. It’s fairly toxic.
THEATRE DIRECTOR. Might be good to get it up on its feet.
ACTOR TWO. How am I meant to piss in this thing? Nurse.
TIM tries to dress into a jacket and tie.
TIM. Comb my hair shave suit spew in the sink and one small step dizzy nurse buzz fuck it.
THEATRE DIRECTOR. Will you make it to the reading? Your public awaits.
TIM. I don’t think I can go. I’m not going in a wheelchair. Knowing my luck I’d vomit in the foyer and these monsters, under my bed, they’ll drink my blood if I step into an operating theatre venue so I can’t go I’m afraid. I’m so afraid. I have AIDS. Do people know that, should I make it clearer, for the audience, for my friends, that are here tonight, that’ll be there tonight, at the theatre, should I tell them, what should I tell them?
ACTOR ONE. ‘Conigrave writes with an exuberant gaze.’
THEATRE DIRECTOR. We’ll make up a story… That you have really bad gastro.
ACTOR THREE. That you’re dead and died long ago.
ACTOR TWO. Oh no. Nurse.
An answering machine beeps.
ACTOR ONE. They pissed themselves, Tim. Everyone was devastated you couldn’t make it.
An answering machine beeps.
ACTOR TWO. Hi Tim, hope your gastro is getting better. I loved doing your play. Write another one.
An answering machine beeps.
JULIET’S VOICE. Tim, it’s Juliet. Your play was great, I nearly wet myself. Hope you get a production and that your gastro gets better.
An answering machine beeps.
PETER’S VOICE. Peter here, Tim. I told Juliet you were in hospital. I assumed she already knew. Sorry. Call me.
An answering machine beeps.
JULIET’S VOICE. Tim, darling, it’s Juliet again. You’re in hospital? Why didn’t you tell us? Is everything okay? Sorry to ask, but everyone is wondering if you have AIDS.
The answering machine beep becomes a life-support machine.
VOICES (simultaneous). Hi Tim, I’ve just heard that you are in hospital and that you have AIDS. Is that true? I don’t want you and John to die. I’m scared. (Simultaneous.) I’ve just heard you guys are not well, that you have AIDS. You guys are both the ones I’d least expected to get it. How sick are you? (Simultaneous.) You poor bastards. You poor bastards. Oh God. You poor poor bastards. Oh God.
TIM. I’m fine.
Recorded audience laughter.
I’ll be back at work in a couple of days.
Recorded audience laughter. TIM strains to hear where it is coming from.
But I’m not as weak as you think.
Recorded audience laughter. The THEATRE DIRECTOR has a cassette tape for TIM.
THEATRE DIRECTOR. The cast made a tape of the reading for you. It’s hard to hear but I guess you know all the lines.
Recorded audience laughter.
TIM. They’re laughing. I made people laugh.
The recording of TIM’s play fades.
Five
The Hotel Ramada Renaissance, Circular Quay. TIM and JOHN wear jackets and ties. Their luggage has hotel tags.
TIM. Can I have a ciggie?
JOHN. No.
TIM. On the balcony? Please? You can see the Opera House. Let me have a ciggie.
JOHN. No.
TIM. Why?
JOHN. Um, because you’ve had pneumonia and PCP.
TIM. Oh, who hasn’t?
JOHN. You think everything’s a joke to be laughed at.
TIM. Shoosh. We’re treating ourselves this weekend.
JOHN. You eat McDonald’s and Tim Tams behind my back and it stresses me.
TIM (as a public announcement). All kids, please report to the Giggle Palace, all kids.
JOHN. Don’t you want to get well?
TIM. Oh, Jesus fuck, what’s up with all the rules?
WAITER (offstage). Room service.
Enter a sexy WAITER.
TIM. Come in if you’re beautiful. (To himself, on seeing the WAITER.) Ooh, shit.
WAITER. Good evening.
The WAITER brings their meals.
TIM. Mr Caleo, will you join me?
JOHN. Thank you.
TIM. Have you worked here long?
WAITER. Two years.
TIM. Must have been at school when you started.
WAITER. Still at school.
TIM. Oh. Champagne for Mr Caleo, please.
JOHN. Can’t.
TIM. Can.
JOHN. Can’t. My stomach. I can’t.
WAITER. Very good. Will there be anything else, sir?
TIM. Um. No. Oh…
TIM hands the WAITER a tip.
WAITER. Thank you, sir.
TIM. Bye.
The WAIT
ER exits.
JOHN. Did you give him a twenty?
TIM. Yeah.
JOHN. That’s too much.
TIM. Well?
JOHN. Well, I already felt bad about spending all this money on staying here and you bought a new tie and it worries me. You are making my ulcer worse.
TIM. We just need some glamour.
TIM pours JOHN some champagne.
JOHN. My stomach will kill.
Silence.
Sorry. We’ll have a nice time tonight.
They start to eat.
Six months is nothing.
TIM. Pardon?
JOHN. It’s November.
TIM. I know.
JOHN. I was sideswiped when the doctor said ‘lymphoma’. I heard it before he said it.
They eat.
TIM. You could call Peter in Melbourne to help with your decision. He’s known you so long… He’s a nurse in this field even and he knows what chemo will do and what it means if it is disseminated.
JOHN. I’m calling the doctor on Monday. They said they’ll start straight away. I’m taking the ten per cent chance of chemo.
TIM. You say it like I should know.
JOHN. I’m not going to give up without a fight.
TIM. A toast. To your decision.
JOHN. To the obvious choice.
TIM. I wish there were others.
They drink.
I spoke to Peter. I called him.
JOHN. You never call Peter.
TIM. He said he could take some leave to help us later in the year.
JOHN. We’ll see.
Silence. They eat.
I wish I’d got to play for Essendon.
TIM. Yeah. I wish that too. Will chemo make your eyelashes fall out?
JOHN. I don’t know. AZT made them grow longer.
TIM. Really?
JOHN. Think so.
Silence. They eat.
JOHN. I wish I’d been a chiropractor for longer.
TIM. You started your own practice. No regrets there.
JOHN. No. Sure.
TIM. I’m sad my acting career didn’t take off.
JOHN. You did all right. I’m sorry I never got to have sex with a woman. There’s no way I could now.
TIM. I wanted to have kids with Juliet. Probably a turkey baster but maybe we’d root. Scared I’ll get duped on legacy.
JOHN. No one to look after us when we’re old?
TIM. Something like that. So, do you really desire to have breeder-sex?
JOHN. I’m curious.
TIM. What if you decided you liked it better than with me?
JOHN. Not a possibility. You’re too cute.
