The American People, Volume 2

by Larry Kramer

  “My baby is very sick?”

  Gertrude nodded. “By now I suspect he may have died.”

  “He felt we never loved him?” She had tears, yes, but she realized she didn’t know which son she was crying for. “What’s the use,” she said. “If I cry for one I cry for all and mostly for myself. I will not cry for myself.” And she wiped her eyes dry with her hands.

  Gertrude said nothing at first. Then she said, softly, almost whispering: “I hope you realize that now, Rivka, we both are … free.”

  “Yes!” Rivka suddenly exclaimed excitedly. “Yes, Gertrude, we are free!”

  “So here we are, my dear Rivka, two old ladies, unloved all our lives, scorned by men who couldn’t love each other, sitting together by a mighty ocean. Can you not see that the rest of our lives are not very long at all?”

  Then, like a siren heard only dimly through the fog and from a distance, or like a high-pitched croon from some animal Rivka herself had certainly never seen or heard or known, some animal or bird or mate suddenly set free from captivity and understanding it not a whit, she laughingly celebrated her availability out into the wind with a mighty guffaw. The new nighttime answered her at first with only silence, not even a rustle of a breeze from the ocean, not even a distant hint of a tune from an orchestra gathered in some far-off ballroom, playing for the old-timers.

  Then Gertrude embraced her. She took Rivka in her arms and Rivka’s head fell upon her shoulder. They held each other tightly. Gertrude kissed Rivka’s forehead as Rivka smoothed the other woman’s hair.

  Stories like this are never over. There is always a future to be haunted by a ghost or two. Did Rivka stay with Gertrude? Did the two old ladies finally and at last have some kind of happy ending, now that the Jew between them had been led out of the house of bondage?

  Yes, she did, and they did.

  DANIEL THE SPY

  It was good to hear from you, Fred, at last. I am so sad and sorry about your Felix. You are forgiven for not answering sooner.

  As I am more and more hurting for my missing brother, I understand how one can miss someone more and more as time goes on.

  Now that I know how I can help from this end—well, that is what I will do. And now I feel like a spy in a movie and I love it. Daniel the NITS Spy!

  There is much to fill you in on to get you up to speed. Perhaps you know some of it.

  First and foremost, you must know by now that Ruester is completely out to lunch for us. No one can get anywhere near him. He’s guarded and protected and shielded and hidden and spoken for by these men: Manny Moose, Chevvy Slyme, Gree Bohunk, Garrie Nasturtium, and Linus Gobbel, who is rumored to be the “hidden force.” Slyme you’ve met. Garrie was All-American something or other, I think football. He’s knockout handsome without being sexy in the least. He’s ambitious but he looks like he’s missed a few career steps on his way and knows it. Gobbel and Bohunk are both killers and seem to work as a team. There’s not a first-class mind among them. They are all connivers. It’s said that Purpura wants it this way. It’s no secret that she’s calling all of Old Peter’s shots. That’s what Ruester’s called by many of those around him. Old Peter.

  This is the group of bozos who are making all the decisions for The American People.

  Garrie Nasturtium says all the time to Jerry—they appear to be friends from somewhere (I’m allowed to listen in on the phone)—that “Old Peter” hates fairies the most. He said Purpura said to Old Peter, “You can’t call them fairies in public,” and Old Peter answered, “If I did, I’d get reelected by the biggest majority anyone’s ever won.” Garrie and Moose and Peter go way back. Garrie got caught at some kind of midnight orgy in Sacramento. One of my patients who was there said it was all gay. Garrie couldn’t run for president after that. But the ultraconservatives love him and so he nourishes hope. Moose and Slyme have revived the old Office of Unnatural Acts. Moose renamed it the Tricia Institute after one of the Nixon daughters. And stuck it under Linus. It’s meant to gather information about gay people, including our names and where we live and work. I asked Jerry what he thought about this and he said, “Welcome to Washington.” When I told him I’d lived here all my life, he answered, “No, you haven’t. Not really.”

  After three very long years of UC an all-staff meeting is finally convened by Dr. Dye.

  “I’m perplexed not all of you know each other. It’s sad when the people who should don’t. How can you work in such similar fields and in the same buildings and in some cases practically on top of each other and be such strangers?”

  I wonder (and I wonder if anyone else is wondering) why he’s talking like this. He sounds like Mr. Nice Guy, reasonable. Did somebody bawl him out? Is he covering some tracks of his own? Is he admitting he needs help? He doesn’t know a single one of us himself.

  In the NITS conference room (109AH7 on the map I sent you) are, for starters, Dr. Nostrill from HAH, Dr. Pewkin from COD, a couple of strangers from FADS, Drs. Oderstrasse and Maudilla Chanel-Bosch from Blood of All Nations, Vonce Greeting (whom Dye introduced as “my old friend”), Dr. Caudilla Hoare from American Red Blood, and of course Omicidio. Oh, and Dr. Middleditch. And Dodo Geiseric, who still doesn’t recognize me or my name. That’s your first clue to what a jerk he still is. There are a lot of others (the room is packed, a couple hundred), but they have that blank, nonparticipatory look of bureaucrats that I’ve come to recognize on far too many. And yes, Gobbel and Bohunk, Purpura’s boys. And the laugh-a-minute Hoidene Swilkers, secretary of HAH, who tries to call the meeting to order but Dye tells her coldly to sit down: “I called this meeting.” She takes this personally and huffs herself out of the room.

  He continues in his nice vein. “Let us claim this day as when we officially begin our counterattack in earnest, our defensive full-frontal counterattack so the world can see us. It’s a nice fall day. Why, it’s almost Thanksgiving. We must give the country something to be thankful for at last.” Hmmm. He’s willing to admit that we’re this far behind?

  Dodo has been here at NITS all his working life, as has Jerry; both are in their mid-forties. They’re not particularly cordial to each other. Dodo already has a Needler and a Vorsicht and will no doubt win many more upper-tier awards. He’s smart but, like I say, a drip. He knows he’s smart and is very narcissistic about it. As the saying goes, it’s his way or the highway. Middleditch, who is chief scientist and who’s very smart, knows Dodo’s smarter and tries to protect him like the only precious cargo that’s going to bring glory to NITS. Middleditch, who must be over sixty, is just finishing his Faust daVinci Fellowship, some sort of recognition given to long-termers who’ve never been given anything else. “Dodo’s the brightest I have ever come across since Israel Jerusalem.” He said that to me. Indeed, I wonder what’s happened to Israel Jerusalem. All I know about my cousin is that no one ever talks about him.

  Dr. Dye continues. “It’s been brought to our attention by Dr. Poo of Invincible, and Drs. Benois-Frucht and Brookner of Table, that something’s begun to happen. I gather that no one has any notion what’s going on or how to go about finding out.”

  “Not true! I am quite far along in my research!” Geiseric says, standing up abruptly as if he’s prepared to launch into a description of what he’s doing.

  “Kelvin?” Dye turns to Geiseric.

  “Nobody calls me Kelvin!” Dodo explodes in laughter. “Most of the time I forget that’s my real name. I’ve been called Dodo since I was a mad kid scientist with my chemistry set in our attic. I blew the place up once and set it on fire a couple of times. I’ve never been called anything else since.”

  “Isn’t that interesting,” Dye says.

  “You know that I am quite far along in my research?” Dodo tries again. The audience is riveted in attention. This is big-time Big Stuff talkers talking.

  “Well, let us keep it our little secret,” Dye mock whispers. “We don’t want to give too much of it away yet.”

  “Just like a spy movie,�
� Dodo actually squeals, like an excited kid.

  “Exactly,” Dye replies.

  “Goody-goody,” Dodo also actually says. “That’s what Mr. Slyme said we must be like. I talk too much for Mr. Slyme.”

  “So he has told me.”

  “Not you, too!”

  “Yes!”

  Dodo now grins like a boy just caught stealing something. This is the man Middleditch thinks is going to save the world from our plague. Indeed, Middleditch is giving Dodo a shut-up-already stare and Dodo shuts up and sits down.

  I think Omicidio is exceptionally handsome, full of beans, also very full of himself. I’ve been assigned to him full-time now. Dr. Gist is on his way out. He predicted this shit was going away. “The theory of the herd,” he calls his theory in his required textbook on infectious diseases. Once it passes through everyone it will then pass out of existence. Did you ever hear such bullshit? Gist’s actually being moved on because Dye discovered he lives with his boyfriend who’s also his assistant.

  Dye said to Jerry, “When I saw you I immediately thought: I need someone attractive to be the spokesman for our institute. To the media, the TV cameras, to the reporters, to the world itself. I do not wish to speak to anyone. I want you to be our star pitchman, Jerrold. I want the world and Congress to know how important we are and give us some money for this shit.”

  Is it interesting that no one here has been particularly friendly with anyone else? I find that all over the place. Dye and Middleditch and Gist must have been—I don’t know what to call them: passive? out to lunch? uncaring? homophobic? frightened or nervous about something? to have fertilized such an atmosphere. Or is it just endemic to scientists and research? I keep wanting to ask, wouldn’t it be better if we all could be buddies?

  “You will be my Big Three.” Dr. Dye has his arms somehow around Dodo, Jerry, and Middleditch.

  Then, changing the subject and opening up his smile, and his arms, to the whole room, he says, “We must all assure our country that the blood supply is safe.” What a funny item to throw out to us. Especially since we have no idea if this is true. And he knows it. In fact, he must know the blood supply is filthy as shit.

  “Oh, God, that’s true,” Maudilla says. “Dr. Stewwie Foss, who is not only on my BOAN board but is chair of Hematology at Yaddah Medical School, says that the blood supply is completely and utterly safe and I am sick of people scattering idle chatter otherwise!” Everyone’s impressed she takes such a tone with Dye. But then BOAN’s an independent entity, reporting to no one. I make a mental note to try and find out where their money comes from.

  “How has Dr. Stewwie Foss arrived at his clean bill of health?” Dye asks.

  “He’s asked me to submit this report.” Maudilla hands him over a few pages. “It presents statistical calculations that show it’s not possible and confirms his opinion that whatever’s happening isn’t blood-borne.”

  “But dat iss ridiculous,” Dr. Oderstrasse sputters. “Dr. Stewwie-Foss is wrong. This is his last name, Stewwie-Foss? You did not tell me this!” He’s talking to his boss and she’s not answering him.

  “Dr. Foss is also honorary chairperson of American Red Blood,” Caudilla Hoare of American Red Blood pipes up, protectively. She wears a flowery ensemble with a big bow at her throat. She also wears clumpy shoes. If the blood is puky, American Red Blood is in deep shit.

  Good, good. Stuartgene nods and smiles. It would seem as if he was enjoying the infighting.

  Von Greeting also nods quietly to himself. He looks like an old movie star, tall, black hair probably dyed, certainly slicked down with something to keep it in place, great tailoring. I’d swear he’s gay, even though he wears a wedding band. But then, everyone in this town wears wedding bands. He has that forward-pelvic-thrust posture when he’s upright that I notice in my patients who get fucked a lot. Greeting may be an ancient company with a long history, but no one knows much about this Von.

  Dr. Dye acknowledges him. “Mr. Greeting, as you must know, owns and runs the largest pharmaceutical company in the world.” Von beams, and I almost expect him to stand up and take a bow. “And of course we all have high hopes for their newest drug, which I understand is now named RegurgiaPlus, to provide a higher standard of life and living for the world’s hemophiliacs.” Greeting now raises his arms like a prizefighter, his palms together in a clasp of victory. “Let us hope, Von, that Greeting will also deliver to us a protective medicine to help us against UC. That’s why I’ve asked him to join our little chats.”

  “Boss, anything you want to do collaboratively, this Greeting and all the other little Greetings are here for you ten thousand percent.” The voice is prideful and mellifluous in the extreme. Oderstrasse’s nose is wrinkling.

  “Wat does all dat mean?” he asks. He is not answered.

  Von then gets serious. “Actually, I do know what to go after, guys. Stay tuned.” Everyone in the room starts exchanging looks and shrugging shoulders. You certainly don’t admit publicly you have secrets you’re not going to share.

  I’m still not aware of any direction, any leadership, and certainly no sense of urgency. I realize no director from FADS has showed up. FADS is under HAH although FADS thinks and acts like it’s over everybody. Well, there’s no one here from FADS. Guess they figure there’s nothing for them to approve yet.

  “So no one is going to demand that precautions be put in place?” I venture to say.

  “Absolutely not!” Maudilla says.

  “And destroy the confidence of The American People in all the work of American Red Blood?” Caudilla says.

  They are said to be competitors. Couldn’t prove it today.

  Schwitz is silenced by Maudilla’s staring at him. Shut up, her stare says. If you know what’s good for you. Blood people are said to be difficult people. Blood is so tricky. My mother always said so. Indeed, I will never forget my own childhood experience on that bloodmobile.

  “Dr. Nostrill?”

  “Yes, Dr. Dye?” He sounds nervous that he’s been singled out. HAH is over NITS, so why is he nervous?

  “What are your thoughts about all of this?” Dye asks.

  “Smells like a big one.”

  “It does, doesn’t it. That is all you have to say?”

  “Not much more to say at this point, is there?”

  And that was that.

  I am now spending more time sitting in on discussions with Jerry and Howie Hube and Debbi Driver and an assortment of potential “investigators” who come and go, discussions about what we can actually start doing when some sort of go-ahead is given. This is pretty daring of Jerry, because he’s not officially authorized for any of this yet.

  “Greeting wasn’t at that meeting for nothing,” Jerry says. “He’s got something.”

  I already think Howie Hube is a drag, but he managed to pull a NITS study of childhood whooping cough together quickly with reasonable results. When we get something to test he’s going to be in charge of getting UC clinical trials on their feet, over gung-ho Debbi, who’s only a nurse practitioner, but who’s evidently run successful NITS trials all over the country. She already hates Howie, which I’d say is good taste if I thought Debbi was so great. Fred, they are both just so second-rate. I boldly asked Jerry if he didn’t see that. “I see a lot of things. Seeing them and doing something about them are two different matters.” Then he clapped me on the back and went into his john to change into his jogging gear. I look at him with insuppressible interest when he emerges in his shorts and T-shirt. I do, I do. He likes it too. He winks at me.

  At the next meeting: Drs. Dye, Omicidio, Middleditch, Grodzo, Nostrill. Secretary Swilkers, dumb as a doozy, today in a wig of red hair that makes her look like a lollipop. Theoretically she’s over everything and is the most senior person in this room. And a Dr. Nutrobe, the new head of FADS, the whale and fishes doc (and a retired admiral!). There are now even more observers from different agencies who walk in and out as if they’re auditing a class. Again the room
is full. I’d say a hundred. Also here, in that the White House rarely sends anyone to a meeting like this, is Chevvy Slyme. Also from Congress, Representative Something-or-Other Dingus. Middle-aged and mean. Dr. Garth Buffalo from Harvard, also a nonsmiler but better-looking and much better dressed; he’s married to some heiress and he’s got a Nobel. Dodo again, friend from our youth. Dr. Buffalo and Dodo don’t like each other. The competition between them is tangible. Dr. Buffalo doesn’t waste one second before he says, as has Dodo, “I can cure this shit. I know how to do it.” He turns to Rep. Dingus. “I need a lot of money but it will save you money in the long run.” Dr. Buffalo has that Nobel, so he’s used to being taken seriously. But Dingus is chair of a powerful committee that investigates anything it wants to. How’s that for power. “I do not like your approach,” he says flat-out to Buffalo. “There are proper channels and you are welcome to go through them.” “You want answers now. Your channels take longer than World War Two,” Buffalo replies, obviously annoyed. Dingus ignores him from that moment on. “Pretentious creeps, scientists who claim they can cure. Pompous perverts playing God,” he says so everyone can hear him. “I don’t think Dr. Buffalo is gay,” Dr. Middleditch says, surprisingly. “Irrelevant,” Dingus says. “I will find a way to put him out of business.” Buffalo of course has heard all this. Dingus trips over the sleeping Dodo on his way to his exit. “Is this what we pay you for?” he yells, by now truly incensed. He grabs Dodo’s name tag on his white coat, ripping it almost off. “Geiseric! I will find a way to put you out of business too.” He leaves us, mercifully. All six foot plus hulking bit of him.