The American People, Volume 2

by Larry Kramer

  The whole thing quickly becomes a mess. The closer Fred gets to Goins, the harsher the guards’ treatment of Fred is. Three guards corner him, twist his arm behind him, and start pushing him quickly away.

  FRED (contd): We’re dying! What are you doing! Stop it, you pigs! This is America! Help! Henry, help!

  Fred is quickly silenced and out of sight.

  The music is upped in volume.

  HENRY (to Goins): Shit, Kermit. You didn’t have to do that.

  MAYOR: Henry, I told you a dozen times. Don’t mix politics and friends.

  Fred, leaving, is stopped by a tired-looking older man, Dr. Glanz.

  DR. GLANZ: Mr. Weeks, I think you must have the general idea by now. I would leave but for my pension.

  And he walks away. He is a beaten man. Fred watches him.

  FRED WASN’T EXPECTING THIS

  That little warning letter I wrote in The Prick, that I thought of as a heads-up kind of thing? Seventeen columns of hateful invective were the response. Orvid said they’d never received so much hate mail. The featured letter was from a guy who had come to interview me, followed by a fuck, decent enough, not special enough to want to do it with him again, but he wanted to, and when I wouldn’t (why are you even fucking at all, Fred! after your warning to all the others! You think you’re immune or something?), this is what he wrote:

  I think the concealed meaning in Lemish’s emotionalism is the triumph of guilt: that gay men deserve to die for their promiscuity. In that novel he wrote he told us that sex is dirty and that we ought not to be doing what we’re doing. Now, with this stuff attacking gay men, he assumes he knows the cause. His real emotion is a sense of having been vindicated, though tragically: he told us so, but we didn’t listen to him; nooo—we had to learn the hard way, and now we’re dying.

  Read anything by him closely. I think you’ll find that the subtext is always: the wages of gay sin are death. I ask you to look closely because I think it’s important for gay people to know whether or not they agree with him. I am not downplaying the seriousness of the current illness. But something else is happening here, which is also serious: internalized homophobia and anti-eroticism.

  Among other correspondents also throwing major shit in my face were Pubie Grotty, Cocker Rutt, Muxter Questlos, and now Jervis Pail. By now they’d all gone on record with how much they hated me because my novel about our lives said stuff they didn’t think should be said. “He’s giving away all our secrets,” Pubie wrote in the Vice. Jervis also diagnosed me as “suffering from a major rampant case of galloping internalized homophobia.” That means they think that I hate myself for being gay. How do you fight back against this one? Cocker Rutt was a “scholar” over in New Jersey teaching about “genders” and Jervis was “our leading writer,” according to Pubie, who was “our leading journalist” at The Village Vice. Muxter had been a “Distinguished Scholar in Literature” at Yaddah, I’m sorry to say. I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting any of them. We’d never moved in the same circles. I hadn’t worried about encountering circles.

  The four of them co-signed this letter: “Who is this strange moron appearing out of the depths of nowhere to tell us how to live, we who have forged this movement out of our very bowels to give our people pride?” They are just warming up. “Out of his own self-loathing this crazy man Lemish continues on his unrelenting mission to brand us hateful sinners.”

  Sin? I’m an atheist! Don’t you have to believe in God to believe in sin? I don’t believe in God! I don’t like the feel of any of this at all. If this was some sort of baptism by fire, I wanted to run away.

  To Dr. Homer I run, of course.

  I cry out plaintively. “I wonder if this disease will just be a continuation of the disease that’s been my life. I am going to die because homosexuals hate each other?”

  “This is a strong insight and conclusion to reach from these accusations,” Dr. Homer says. Of all things, he encourages me to explore this new and fertile territory. Shades of Dr. Gillespie. “You must bear witness, no?” Yes, Dr. Homer also encourages me to fight back, “since you seem so angry, of course.”

  Dr. Homer is always saying, “Nothing wrong with anger.”

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO WHAT-WAS-HIS-NAME?

  Faggots everywhere are saddened to read the following in The Avocado of March 1982:

  Timmy Purvis, that beautiful morsel, is our first famous person who dies from this something. We noticed and watched and wondered. Why is he going outdoors looking like that? He’s our most exceptionally handsome model. We have been in awe of his beauty through his meteoric rise to international fame. We all know many beauties that become bigheaded the moment they’re clicked by someone paid to take their picture. That was not our Timmy.

  The great Dr. Hokie Benois-Frucht himself took care of Timmy, which was sadly for a very short time.

  Timothy Peter Purvis gets sick right in front of us.

  Timothy Peter Purvis dies right in front of us.

  Timothy Peter Purvis is taken from us, this beautiful dream.

  His beauty had broken our hearts and now his death will do the same.

  What did he die from!

  Oh, what is happening to us?

  What is happening to us!

  Timothy Peter Purvis, our Timmy, is scattered into the Hudson, “never to be forgotten,” say one and all.

  The Divine Bella obviously filed the story before he himself died, though The Avocado, as with everything connected with this plague, neglected to inform its readers in a timely fashion.

  EMMA’S VOICE: Mr. Lemish, what have you been doing since we met? I haven’t heard from you … Mr. Lemish, are you there?

  INT. FRED’S LOFT. NIGHT.

  Very large and high-tech. Walls overflowing with books. Dr. Emma Brookner is speaking to a group of about seventy-five guys, sitting and standing all over the place. The room is hot and everyone is sweating. Fred, holding his dog, Sam, looks around at all the reactions, from fear to sleep. Bruce, Mickey Marcus, exceedingly intense and caring, Tommy Boatwright, a tall Southerner, Pubie Grotty, Morton, a handsome serious Texan in glasses, etc.… Morton and Pubie are already hammering at Emma. Sam now scurries about happily. Fred, Bruce, and Mickey are paying particular attention to the reactions.

  EMMA: I think you are all going to infect each other. Now only a few of you have. Unfortunately we can’t tell yet which ones.

  PUBIE (interrupting): You make all your assumptions on the basis of fifty-six cases!

  EMMA: I made my decision on the basis of half a dozen. I now have ninety-three.

  MORTON: Six people and every gay man in the world has to give up sex? I don’t think so, Doctor.

  PUBIE: You sound like some born-again. (Morton and Pubie nod to each other.)

  EMMA: Long before we isolated the hepatitis viruses, we knew about the diseases they caused and how they got around. I think I’m right about this.

  MORTON: “Think” is not enough, Doctor. “Know” is what we require.

  EMMA: That will prove to be very foolish. By then you will have all infected each other!

  RAYMOND: Why are we only hearing about this from you?

  EMMA: I sent my first reports to the medical journals over a year ago.

  PRISSY MAN: I am certain I’ve never done whatever it is she’s going on about.

  MAN IN LEATHER: I’m certain you’ve never done it too.

  PUBIE: But they haven’t published them?

  EMMA: No, they haven’t.

  MILTON: How do you know what to look for when you don’t know what you’re looking for?

  HERB: That makes sense.

  EMMA: Yes, it could take a long time to locate the virus.

  DECENT SORT (frustrated): But don’t you understand? You’re not telling us enough!

  EMMA: But don’t you understand, there’s not much more to tell you. Doesn’t common sense tell you to cool it for a while?

  DIEGO: Not much to look forward to.

  MORTON
: What if it turns out you’re wrong?

  EMMA: Then the worst thing that will have happened is that you will have cooled it for a while.

  MICKEY: No, that’s not all that will have happened. Guys will have become frightened of sex, guys will have lost their gay self-respect, so long fought for, we’ll be scapegoated worse than ever, the world will think we’re carriers, the Moral Majority will have even more of a field day …

  HERB: Fred, Pubie’s right. We have to think everything through very carefully before we do anything.

  Emma senses the crowd is getting restless. A few people are even leaving.

  EMMA: Wait! Come back! I am seeing more cases each week than the week before. Half of all my patients die. What’s wrong with you!

  GUY IN LEATHER: I hope she winds it up. I’ve got a tiny little orgy on the Upper West Side.

  KID NEXT TO HIM: So far?

  PUBIE: You can’t even give me enough hard facts to write about this in The Village Vice.

  TOMMY: And we all know how many hard facts the Vice needs to write about anything.

  ANOTHER GUY: Oh, I like their personals!

  A VOICE FROM THE BACK: Where’s the mayor? Where’s the Health Department?

  EMMA: They … We … I’ll tell you if you’ll be quiet for a minute. The mayor—

  GRAHAM: You don’t really expect the mayor to do anything for us, do you? He’s just like the president.

  TERRY: This mayor has done more for us than any other mayor.

  TAYLOR: If you believe that, you’ll believe the tooth fairy. The mayor is not gay.

  TOMMY: Oh, come on, Blanche!

  TERRY: I think it’s tasteless when gay men make fairy jokes.

  BUZZY: Get real, girl.

  SERIOUS GUY IN GLASSES (gets up to leave): This is just like every other stupid gay meeting.

  More people are leaving, waving goodbye to others, blowing a kiss or two.

  EMMA: Please wait! Listen to me, please! Most of you are going to die!

  Others are leaving. She is so furious, she turns and plows her way through the crowd to the door.

  EMMA: Get out of my way, you stupid people! Open the door!

  Fred has been watching her. He has been very moved by her.

  FRED (to the guy next to him, who is Tommy): She’s going to be right, you know.

  Tommy nods. Fred runs out after Emma.

  Fred tries to catch Emma before elevator leaves.

  FRED (shouting after her): Welcome to gay politics!

  Elevator door closes in his face.

  INT. FRED’S LOFT. NIGHT.

  FRED (returning and trying to stop people from leaving): Wait! Don’t go yet! Bruce and Mickey and I, we want to help Dr. Brookner. Anybody interested in forming some sort of group or organization, hang around, okay?

  MORTON: What do you want to do?

  BRUCE: Spread information. Raise some money. Craig didn’t have any insurance. For instance.

  The room is almost empty. A dozen people have remained, including Tommy.

  TOMMY: I can start a hotline for help and information, I’m a hospital administrator. (To Fred:) You doing anything for dinner, you handsome man?

  BRUCE (whispering to Fred): Who’s he?

  TOMMY: Oh, he does not know who I am. My name is Tommy Boatwright and I’m a southern bitch.

  FRED: Thanks. I’m busy.

  TOMMY: Forever? We’ll just have to see about that.

  DIEGO (sees some kid admiring him and Pierre; they’re holding hands): It gets better as you get older, just like your momma told you.

  WALTER: My momma left my father after six months.

  CHRISTOPHER (holding up a few checks in a baseball cap): We actually got a few checks. Total: twelve thousand dollars.

  BRUCE: Holy shit.

  FRED: So why did they all leave?

  RAYMOND (talking quietly to Christopher): Sammy Redburn. And Monty Epispo.

  CHRISTOPHER: I hadn’t heard about Monty.

  FRED (to Bruce): I’ m sorry about Craig. Want to take in a movie or something?

  BRUCE: Actually, I’ve been seeing … you know Albert? I don’t like living alone.

  MICKEY: I thought she was very impressive. I’ll write about what she said in my next column. She’s the only important person who’s had the guts to say all this out loud.

  FRED (to the few guys left): Are we going to meet next week, or what?

  Bruce, Mickey, and Tommy and a few others …

  Fred’s voice: And so was unofficially born what I came to think of as my first child. GMPA. Gay Men Pay Attention.

  EXT. BOARDWALK. FIRE ISLAND PINES. DAY.

  A gorgeous day. Hordes of bathing-suited men walking back and forth. Mickey, Tommy, Fred, and Bruce are handing out copies of Mickey’s article in The Prick, entitled “Cancer in the Gay Community.” Guys who take copies glance at them and then throw them in a trash barrel.

  FRED AND REBBY AT A PISS PARTY

  “How is your new organization going?” Rebby is asking me.

  We are sitting in the glass-walled observatory overlooking the dance floor in the old Balalaika disco rented for the evening by Garfield Toye and Marvin Moon for a “Piss Party.”

  Believe it or not, it had seemed like a decent idea to support. Contributions would be collected for GMPA. I wasn’t in favor of it but Bruce and Tommy were. “It provides a good example of the … what can I call them? The ironies of our growing predicament,” Tommy said as he took off for a much-needed vacation. Bruce bowed out too. He’s not looking so hot. So it was left to me to show up representing GMPA.

  The event was billed as a Piss Party more as a joke. Piss was very ’70s. Garfield and Marvin decided that everyone needed something to cheer everyone up. “A remembrance of things pissed,” Marvin quipped. Guys are getting sick, etc. So many friends … just disappearing. Etc. That is correct: disappearing. More people are getting scared. Not enough of them, true, but it seems to be building. So Garfield and Marvin decide to invite all their friends and the invitation reads: “PISS PARTY PISS PARTY PISS PARTY! You must strip down to your nakedness. You must check all your clothes at the door. You can wear jockstraps only if you must. It will be just like the old days. We can see each other again in our entire splendor. But we just won’t touch. No, we can touch. We just won’t swallow. Or receive. Or give. LIFE IS HELL!” It is the sort of thing the Divine Bella would have written. But of course the Divine Bella, Bertram Bellberg, is dead. His spirit is here, though.

  The few hundred here pretend they’re not lost in a space that once held many thousands. The mirrored ball still works. Jacente is the DJ. Everyone had loved Juanito. Juanito is one of the ones who disappeared. Jacente was his assistant. He, too, has the gift. He can take the kids up and bring them down. And since it is dark in his DJ’s booth, no one can see he’s not looking well at all. “He is not well,” Rebby tells me. “He is my patient. Jacente is a nice boy. Indeed, half of this room are my patients. That is why I am here. The other half are probably Emma Brookner’s.”

  We watch all the pretty young boys frolic past us, naked, without jockstraps, obviously so not-yet-closed-for-business that it makes one sad. They are all adorable.

  “You don’t remember once I played with your nice cock in the Everhard Baths. Before it was burned down, of course,” Rebby says to me.

  “You did?” I smile politely. It must have been very dark for me to have let Rebby play with my cock.

  Dr. Rebby Itsenfelder is like some prophet from an earlier, ancient time, to whom no one listens and who is forced to wander the earth endlessly ignored when he is right, or right enough. He suffers mightily for being unable to convince others. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone who suffers so agonizingly for the causes he believes in and his failing to deliver on them. His distress is visible, from his face to his walk to the sound of his voice, which is almost pleading, Please listen to me. Please! This is serious!

  He is haunted by the question, what could possibly be going on? I ide
ntify with the growing obsession this question is also making of my life. By now we have both seen too many young men who are not well in strange and differing ways. This one has pus, this one has scabs, this one has lesions, this one has nodes on the lungs, this one’s lost too much weight, this one coughs so hard he can’t talk, this one’s turning purple, this one’s … “There is no discernible pattern. It is as if each is suffering from a different disease,” Rebby says. “Even blood tests are perverse. Vel, blodes, even forzicht ratios, a favorite diagnostic tool of mine from my interning days in South Africa and my lab work at Cambridge.”

  So why and how are they all connected?

  “Because they are all happening at once and only to gay men.” He is by the way the only gay doctor who allows himself to be visible and identifiable as a gay doctor, something that is beginning to really bug me.

  He has hesitated to talk to the only person he believes might be interested and able to help. Dr. Monserrat Krank is a formidable presence—regal, buxom, her blond hair knotted as if she’s some Scandinavian goddess of wheat or knowledge or virtue, and he’s already been through numerous complicated wars with her. Rebby knows Monserrat is bored. Since being asked to leave Invincible Crewd-Harbinger for receiving too much personal publicity, she has little to do. And her husband, Binky, is playing Washington this year. He’s decided he wants to more effectively influence the way of the world. So much money, such an important lawyer, so many vital contacts in the highest seats of power around the globe must be put to better use to make said world a better place. For a while he thought making movies could change bad ways of thinking. He even bought a film studio. He was wrong. Westerns in which the villain doesn’t get caught make more money than the ones where he does. So Oliver Wendell “Binky” Krank takes trips to Washington. Like Bernard Baruch, he sits on park benches and advises important people. And they listen to him because he is famously smart. “He has won more important legal cases establishing new and vital precedents that have brought the law into the modern age than any other living lawyer,” The Truth’s legal correspondent, Ethan Allen Tubster, has written. “If this were the golden age of ancient Greece or Rome surely he would be chief tribune of the forum.” To avoid making yet more millions handling the divorce of one more buxom babe from one more horny aging billionaire, he has taken to sitting on a park bench in Washington’s Lafayette Square. And here they come, presidents and kings. Leaving Monserrat sitting on Sutton Place desperately seeking something to do.