by Larry Kramer
FRED: You are not the first.
(Fred suddenly grabs Felix and kisses him. The kiss becomes quite intense; Fred jumps up.)
FRED: The American Jews knew exactly what was happening. But everything was downplayed and stifled. Everybody had a million reasons for not getting involved. Can you imagine if every Jew had marched on Washington? Proudly! Huh?!
FELIX: Jews, Dachau, Final Solution, what kind of crazy date is this? Fred, you don’t remember me, do you? We’ve been in bed together. We made love. We talked. We kissed. We cuddled. We made love again. I keep waiting for you to remember something, anything. But you don’t.
FRED: How could I not remember you?
FELIX: I do not know.
(Felix shakes his head with sadness.)
It was at the baths a few years ago. You were busy cruising some blond number and I stood outside your door waiting for you to come back and when you did you gave me such an inspection up and down you would have thought I was applying for the CIA.
FRED: And then what?
FELIX: I just told you. We made love. Twice. I thought it was lovely. I asked what you did and you answered something like you’d tried a number of things, and I asked if that had included love, which was when you said you had to get up early in the morning. That’s when I left. But I tossed you my favorite go-fuck-yourself when you told me, “I really am not in the market for a lover”: men do not just naturally not love, they learn not to. And I think you’re a bluffer. Your novel was all about a man desperate for love and a relationship in a world filled with nothing but casual sex.
FRED: Do you think we could start over?
(They return to their lovemaking.)
FELIX: We have.
CUT TO:
They are still naked, lit by the moonlight. Fred touches his finger to a spot of liquid on Felix’s chest. He holds up the finger and they both stare at it.
FRED: Yours or mine?
FELIX: If I had it would you still see me?
FRED: Sure. Would you if I did?
FELIX: When we first met, why didn’t you tell me you were a writer?
FRED: Why didn’t you tell me you worked at The Truth? That, I would have remembered.
FELIX: If I had told you that, you would have seen me again?
FRED: Absolutely.
FELIX: You hustler-slut.
FRED: Hustler-slut! (This breaks them up.)
FELIX: It’s sad how much time we lost.
FRED: Felix, we just weren’t ready then. (Realizing it:) I’ve wanted a lover like you my whole life and you haven’t showed up till now and I’m scared shitless I’ll do something to fuck it up. (Pause.) Do you really think I’m crazy?
FELIX: I certainly do. That’s why I’m here.
FRED: My fucking board. Two solid hours they all yelled at me the other night. I’m creating a panic. I’m making myself into a celebrity. Not one of them will be interviewed or appear on TV, so I do it all by default.
FELIX: And you love to fight.
FRED: I love to fight. Moi?
FELIX: And you’re having a great time.
FRED: Yes, I am.
INT. DISCO. NIGHT.
A huge dancing crowd. The place is mobbed and decorated beautifully. Everybody is very up. Music: Gloria Gaynor, “I Will Survive.” A big banner: GAY MEN PAY ATTENTION.
CUT TO:
Bruce delivering a speech to the crowd.
BRUCE: We sure are glad you all showed up! We kind of feel this gives us a mandate to carry on doing what we’re doing.
(Loud cheers.)
And in the way we’re doing it.
(More cheers.)
Tonight we’re proving we have more than looks, brains, talent, and heart. Tonight we’ve raised more money than any gay organization has ever raised in this city before.
(Fred hands him a card.)
Fifty-three thousand dollars!
Huge cheers. Fred and Bruce embrace. Morton, Dick, Tommy come up to join them.
CUT TO:
New York City Gay Men’s Chorus singing “The Man I Love.”
CUT TO:
Fred and Felix in a corner making funny faces at each other, then giving each other a big kiss.
CUT TO:
Everyone on the floor is kissing each other as the chorus crescendos. It is an amazingly wonderful sight. Even Emma, with several of her sick patients, does a sort of dance.
FRED: Would you like to move in with me?
Felix nods. Fred starts to dance like a crazy person.
INT. FRED ON TV.
Being interviewed by a woman, SaraBeth Clare.
FRED: What do I think? I know that the government is intentionally ignoring this epidemic.
SARABETH: You’re accusing the government of the United States of a conspiracy to murder all gay men?
Lettering appears under Fred: FRED LEMISH, CO-FOUNDER, GAY MEN PAY ATTENTION.
FRED: Yes. Yes, SaraBeth, I am. Yes.
INT. BOARDROOM. DICK’S LAW OFFICE. NIGHT.
Walls shelved with law books. Several new faces, including Joey, a young Hispanic. Bruce presiding. Fred in the hot seat. Mickey is visibly upset by the fight going on and glaring at Fred. Morton smirking. Tommy looking glacially into space.
BRUCE: You can’t go on national TV and accuse the government of murder!
FRED: Why not?
BRUCE: One of these days they’re going to give us money, research, grants …
FRED: Ruester still hasn’t said the word in public! Congress still hasn’t appropriated a dime. The Truth still hasn’t … The mayor still hasn’t …
DICK: Fred, when you go public, you have no right to speak for this organization unless we have approved what you say in advance. In point of fact, you are not even an officer of this organization and shouldn’t be speaking for us at all.
FRED: Thank you for letting us meet in your office, Dick.
(Walks out.)
INT. FRED ON TV.
The interviewer this time is a man, Malcolm Murphy.
MALCOLM: Why do you think New York City is being so slow to acknowledge and recognize this emergency?
Lettering under Fred: “Fred Lemish, Gay Activist.”
FRED: You’re implying that the city has recognized and acknowledged this emergency, Malcolm. It has not.
MALCOLM: Why not, do you think?
FRED (after a beat): Because the mayor is gay and scared out of his panties that it’ll blow his cover.
INT. BOARDROOM. NIGHT.
Fred in the hot seat again. Very heated. Similar expressions on faces. Mickey is upset by yet another fight. Another new face, Dan, a schoolteacher.
FRED: You can’t tell me what to say when I’m speaking for myself.
BRUCE: Everyone knows you’re one of us!
FRED: You can’t have it both ways!
DICK: No, you cannot have it both ways!
MORTON: It is totally and politically incorrect to call people gay who do not self-identify as being gay!
FRED (working this out and saying it for the first time): I know it’s been that way forever. But something different is going on now. We’re dying. I don’t want to die because another gay man is too ashamed of himself to help us stay alive. I am not going to let him kill us because he’s ashamed of what I’m proudest of. If it’s been commanded by the gay “movement” to protect such people, then it’s wrong. (To Dick:) The mayor—he’s your personal friend. You want him to appoint you as a judge. Do you have a little conflict of interest going on here?
DICK: I told you. I sent him a memo.
FRED: When?
DICK: Through channels.
FRED: When!
DICK: He’ll answer me.
FRED: When!
DICK: Three, four … months.
FRED: There were three hundred, four hundred new cases in those three, four months!
He looks at Bruce, who has his head down between his legs.
FRED (contd): Do I embarrass you?
&nbs
p; BRUCE: Yes, you do.
JOEY: You get more with honey than with vinegar.
FRED: I’ve never heard that one, Joey.
DAN: No, obviously he hasn’t.
FRED (in Joey’s face): The squeaky wheel gets the most grease. Ever hear that one, Joey? Dan?
BRUCE: If we get too political we lose our tax-exempt status. That’s what Harvey in your own brother’s law firm advised us. We got more than we can handle just trying to help patients.
(To Tommy:) Give your report.
TOMMY (consulting notes): We have trained forty-five crisis counselors to help the newly diagnosed in whatever needs they might have. We have twelve group leaders who meet with these counselors at least once a week to go over all their clients. There are now seventeen volunteer social workers, psychologists, and/or psychiatrists. I can call on five lawyers. We helped draw up seventy-five wills last month—
FRED (interrupting): You think the Catholic Church, Jerry Falwell, the Salvation Army, the Red Cross, aren’t putting political pressure on somebody somewhere for money and help? Bruce—you were a fighter once. Did you like being a Green Beret?
BRUCE: I loved it.
FRED: So why did you quit?
BRUCE: I didn’t quit! I was gay. I had to choose.
FRED: Have you completely forgotten how to fight?
BRUCE: Don’t you fucking talk to me about fighting! I just fight different from you!
FRED: I haven’t seen your way yet. Bruce—your Albert may be dying.
BRUCE: Shut up! Just you shut up about Albert!
FRED (to Dick): And you have no right being on this board unless you pressure your friend the mayor. That’s why I asked you to join us in the first place. And you know it.
Dick and Fred stare at each other.
INT. FRED ON THE DONAHUE SHOW. DAY.
WOMAN IN AUDIENCE: What you do and say are against the Bible, against God, against Jesus …
FRED: How do you know? Were you there? Jesus was a single gentleman.
Gasps from audience. Fred suddenly stands up and walks among the audience. They look at him like he’s the enemy.
FRED (contd): Don’t you understand? We can’t change. Just like you can’t change. You can’t become gay and I can’t become straight. So what do you want us all to do? Take poison? Jump off buildings? Slash our wrists? Die?! Do you want to put us in ovens? What would your Jesus say about that? You want us all to lead normal lives, but you won’t give us any legal or theological ways to do so. Why are you punishing us so? We are your sons and brothers! And husbands! We are your children! This plague isn’t the wrath of God—it’s the wrath of you!
INT. SUBWAY. DAY.
An older man, Arthur, stops Fred.
FRED: Arthur, how are …
ARTHUR: I think what you’re doing is awful.
FRED: What am I doing, Arthur?
ARTHUR: You’re destroying all our progress. You’re painting us as sick. It’s not going to happen to me—do you hear me? It’s not going to happen to me or to most of us and you should keep your mouth shut! You’re destroying homosexuality forever!
Arthur gets so worked up that, in his fury, he starts pummeling Fred. Fred disentangles himself and Arthur runs off. Fred stands there unbelievingly.
DORIS HARDWARE’S REMARKS AT AN INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE OF MADAMS
AMSTERDAM
I am often asked to describe my customers. I don’t know if you share similar descriptions. Please know of course that I mean no insult to any countries’ manhood.
The British in Washington have always been among my best customers. The Brits have the most fucked-up of all sex lives. The Japanese are the most childish and come the quickest. I have my biggest profit margin on the Japs. Except they won’t use condoms and now I am more and more insisting on condoms. There’s less profit in Germans. Germans take forever to come. They say they’re enjoying themselves longer, but Germans don’t understand enjoyment. The French—there’s no rule of thumb with the French. One does not generalize about the French. They really are more inscrutable than the Chinese. The Chinese are only inscrutable because their language is incomprehensible, both visually and aurally. The French are inscrutable even if you speak or read French quite well. The French couldn’t care less whether anyone understands them or not, whereas it’s very important to the Chinese that you don’t understand them, that they remain incomprehensible to you, because we are the West and they are not. The French try for elegance and style, which are so important to the French. Elegance, of course, masks truth. The French are not very honest. South Americans, Spaniards, and Mexicans scream and make a lot of noise when they have their orgasms. No one has ever been able to explain to me why they are noisier than, say, the Portuguese. It seems to be a point of particular pride among some Hispanic men to scream when they come. Or perhaps they are just surprised at their achievement. I put them in the farthest rooms. Australians are very well behaved, but not too highly sexed, I think because they are the most attractive physically. I wouldn’t mind catering to Aussies exclusively. No fuss, no bother, nothing too out of the ordinary. But there would have to be more of them. I couldn’t make a living on the few who come to America. Which leaves my beloved countrymen.
The American male. What about him? He can be everything, anything, and nothing. He can be rude, polite, charming, destructive, and physically cruel. That sounds like the French. But Frenchmen have no eyes. You can’t see inside a Frenchman. You can see an American man lie right down to his toes. Since they lie even to themselves, they’re completely predictable. America can be read in her men’s eyes. All the lies. All the I’m sorrys and You won’t believe this buts … Our men are the weakest, least trustworthy, most cowardly. And ironically the most appealing. Their insecurities propel them into trying to seduce you into loving them, a rather deceitful way of having sex that most women fall for.
And would you believe Republicans and Democrats really are different? Republicans fuck less, enjoy it less, and feel guiltier afterward. Democrats are more randy, tip better, are more decent to women—Republicans still treat us like servants; God, how I hate Republicans—but Democrats are slobs, they bathe less, slobber more when they kiss, dress with less taste, a lot less taste, have poor teeth, bad breath, and they want to shoot again after they rest up, not because they have a new and refreshed desire but because they’re certain they didn’t get their money’s worth yet. Democrats have much more energy. The GOP has much more cunning. My biggest customer base is Republican.
Of late there have been customers from Africa. So many revolutions over there that I can’t keep the names of their countries straight. Since a growing number has inquired for black women, I have taken on a few of these who are surprisingly increasingly in demand. I brought two of them over from Léopoldville in what I believe is now called the Belgian Congo. They were highly recommended to me by Madame Rose, whose house there has been protected by their government as a service to returning soldiers from one of their never-ending wars. Would that my government be so considerate! I met Rose at an international conference of us organized by the Health of the World organization in Geneva. We had a wonderful time. I was amazed and pleased by how many sterling, stalwart, hugely intelligent, strong women I met there and see among us now. The two girls from Rose that I brought over—Brazzi and Kinni, named for the towns they hail from—are touchingly sweet as they learn English from their favorite customers. They say that in much of Africa many girls service a thousand or more clients each year in search of a better life. There are five men to every woman in Léopoldville. They are called “free women.” Imagine that. Velvalee, one of my staff, has taken them particularly under her wing. She is very moved by all our new girls. She has become sort of the den mother of us all, untouchable herself but exemplary to all. She helps me run my business now. I would be lost without her, as I grow older. I urge all of you to find yourself a Velvalee.
The world of course is getting rougher. Male machismo is getting mar
kedly out of control. Politics have become increasingly nasty and untrustworthy. My client base reflects this increasingly nasty development in world events. Gentleman is not a word one can utilize much anymore.
I’m certain you’re all familiar with much of what I’ve spoken about. How we can bring harmony to our calling and legal respect for our girls is still way beyond our reach. Perhaps at one of our smaller workshops we can brainstorm about this problem.
* * *
Very interesting. I have been to many of those countries. I will soon enough reach the others. I am going to live forever. I am. I am. I keep telling you and you keep not listening.
ANN FETTNER
More crazies are showing up. American scientific research is based on the most absurd of notions. You do not tell scientists what to research. You wait until somebody decides to look into this or that. Scientists are not a bunch who can be ordered what to do, as it was in Germany. It’s one reason why everything takes so long. One must wait for the prima ballerinas to go en pointe in ballets of their own choreography. The Germans over here cannot believe how much freedom is allowed the individual scientist to research whatever he wants. Even Grodzo has said, “Hitler would never have happened with this much freiheit.”
There are an increasing number of ridiculous statements about what should be researched and how. The “world-famous” hematologist Dr. Nelson Golly comes from Oxford to Harvard to make the case for Sals Particularity as the cure for UC. Harvard gave him a Distinguished Scholar Fellowship to pay for this research, something Oxford (and English law) found unsavory. But Harvard then advised him to go to NITS. “They’re not doing anything there.”
I am reminded of a radio program from my childhood, Can You Top This?
DR. NELSON GOLLY ON SALS PARTICULARITY
Sals means “salt.” A particular salt. No one knows where the term comes from. Salt has been in use culinarily as far back as ancient Rome, and medicinally for just as long. Paracelsus, the great Swiss sixteenth-century physician, asserted that “the elements of all things are salt, sulfur, and mercury,” and that “salt added to any extract increases its strength,” and that “whatever purges, does so by reason of the salt in it.” Have you taken your particular salt? My colleagues in ancient medicine agree that the term appears more Roman than Greek.
