by Larry Kramer
The noises of alarms and fleeing inhabitants began to coalesce in her ears. She lay down on her bed. She wished Abe were here beside her so they could die like Romeo and Juliet. That would be a fitting ending, since that’s how they began. We were so young, Abe. If we’d waited longer, would it have been better? Poppa, I tried. I carried your tradition as far as I could carry it. The family name. Whatever it was. She fumbled for the button behind her and pushed it. Amazing! So this is what it sounds like. Whooshes everywhere, the whoosh of igniting fuel combusting with age. She has set her house on fire. She hopes everyone’s safely out. If you’re not, you’ve been warned and you want to die as much as I do.
Outside, her many girls stand watching like white ghosts attending their former lives. A few hold hands with their evening booking, that is, the few remaining as even they peel off to protect their own safety, leaving the women holding on to each other. They are a beautiful group of women; a hundred years ago, in their flimsy gowns, they could have been at Vassar preparing to play nymphs in pageants, around maypoles, each holding a brightly colored streamer as they wove themselves into one. Buster Punic stands there, too. Doris had let him spend one last night in Claudia’s bed. His face is hideously contorted, as if something of him is going up in flames along with the house. When sirens come from every direction, Buster turns and runs. The firemen have arrived. The police have arrived. He still has enough instinctive sense of self-preservation to live a little longer. Fear, at last somehow reaching him, can make an old man run fast. Or is it just his good old American white heterosexual Jewish stock?
Another old man is running not away from the house but into it. It’s Abe, the richest Jew in Washington for certain, probably the whole East Coast, perhaps even in all America. He runs right into the fire. He runs into the house and through its cascading timbers and its drapes of flame. It’s nothing to such an experienced fireman. He’d been here too many times before. He grew up in a house of fires. Yes, he knows his way around and he knows what to do. He parts the sheets of fire like Moses parting the Red Sea, away, away, get out of my way. Her room is there, though the wall is melting. He sees her on her bed, an island still unconsumed. Like an Olympic diver he springs forward, up, and through, to land beside her. He has her. He has her in his arms. He finally has her in his arms. “My beloved. My dearest Doris. Come. We’re together forever at last.”
It was Abe who motivated and orchestrated this alarm and fire. The only other possessor of a key to Doris’s secrets had cleared all her secrets out. Claudia’s murder had made up his mind. He was tired of all this whoring. He would find a way to transport the greatest love of his life forever into the eternity for which he determined they are finally ready.
Mordecai Masturbov watched his father run into the flames. He’s lost both parents. And his Velvalee, who evidently had no desire to escape the safety his mother had provided her from him. But Jinx is in his arms and comforting him.
THE REAL STUFF
Sex scandals and plagues represent the time and place and era and ethos and vernacular and fabric and even the philosophy and religion of the world that they upstage. They and this are the real stuff of history, of war and peace.
I look out my window at Washington Square and my thoughts go back in time to people I loved. I realize I am alone and infected and my days are numbered, and I feel sad, for I know more each day that life is sad for almost everyone that I know, and I don’t remember at this moment when I last felt happy.
I feel an abject utter failure.
I want to run out to the street and collar any gay man I see and ask him: How can you be happy? At this juncture of your life that is now? When we are more abandoned and alone and needier and under attack than ever?
THIS IS WHAT DANIEL SAW
I don’t wish to be callous about the disappearance of my sister-in-law Sara Jerusalem and the murder of my childhood sweetheart, if you will, Claudia Webb. Coming at this moment in the escalation of the plague of UC, I can’t get my grief around them: my arms only have room to embrace our side.
I didn’t know that Stephen, my own brother, had been so involved with Claudia that her death caused him some sort of nervous collapse which sent him away for a while. Claudia’s murder didn’t get any press. No doubt someone was seeing that nothing was reported after the initial surge of the “Unidentified Woman Found Dead in Rock Creek Park” stuff. Doris Hardware’s name was never mentioned either, in print, anywhere. Abe’s death in the fire, “with his beloved wife of many years beside him,” was of course news in the way obituaries of the very rich are news. We all dutifully went to their elaborate funeral. Since there was nothing but ashes from a house burned to cinders, those were what Mordy scattered to the wind at a private ceremony on his Sexopolis estate. He invited me and I went, full of memories of young Claudia and Daniel and Mordy wandering underground in those tunnels of Masturbov Gardens that his grandfather was only just building. He bawled now like a baby and tried to embrace me forcefully, as if holding on to something from an earlier and perhaps less troublesome era would somehow restore him to a reality he wasn’t living at this moment of such unexpected grief. He really wailed and moaned and at one point threw himself on the earth after he’d poured out more ashes and pounded it with his fists. There was a rabbi in attendance briefly; I didn’t catch his name. Mordy dismissed him about ten minutes into his service. “You did not know my father and my mother and my beloved Claudia, and your attempt to summon them up is horrible to me. Get out!” Oh, and Nate Bulb was in attendance too. He was there in his own urn. Evidently Abe had kept it in his downtown office and Mordy now summoned it to mourn with him.
And he pulled Jinx beside him and proclaimed to us that he would build a new and grander Sexopolis mansion in memory of his dear mother.
And … and …
And this is what I saw the one time I visited Doris Hardware’s, from inside a closet Claudia put me into, “so you can finally see.” I had finally gone to see her.
I saw Claudia whip the living shit out of Sam Sport, so hard his back was striped with bloody lash marks. It reminded me of David’s back. And she was doing it with a smile on her face of total triumph.
I saw my brother Stephen watching this and jerking off, making it last so that he didn’t come until Sam passed out.
I saw Claudia and Stephen then make love passionately on the floor beside Sam’s body. I name it passion because they made love as if they were in love, as if they were making love for the last time before they would be taken off and shot, as if they had to grab what time was left to them before the end of life itself. I shudder to make the comparison that you would have no trouble making, but as if they were the last two about to be carted off to a gas oven during a holocaust, that’s how they were making love. They had to feel it all before it was too late.
Watching it all was Dereck Dumster, that protegee of Sam’s. Claudia had told me he’s dangerous.
THIS IS WHAT FRED WROTE
If, as Tolstoy said, every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way, Tolstoy’s not the right guy to reach for now. This is nothing like anything Tolstoy or most other keepers of the cultural historical torches would ever write about.
When I finish reading Daniel’s words, I go to my bookshelves and take down Dr. Faustus by Thomas Mann, another gay writer who didn’t know how to handle it.
“The section just concluded also swelled much too much for my taste, and it would seem only too advisable for me to ask myself whether the reader’s patience is holding out. Every word I write here is of searing interest to me, but I must be very much on guard against thinking that that is any guarantee of sympathy on the part of the unresolved reader. Although I should not forget, either, that I am writing not for the moment, nor for readers who as yet know nothing at all about Leverkuhn and so could have no desire to learn more about him, but that I am preparing this account for a time when conditions for public response will be quite different—and with certainty one can say much more
favorable—when the demands of this disturbing life, however adeptly or unadeptly presented, will be both less selective and more urgent.”
To which pursuit I must now return. Fred, pace Faust and Mann, wants to know what’s holding his world together at this moment.
STATE OF THE UNION
State of the Union. What union?
STATE OF THE PLAGUE
Jacquie had delayed approval of her test for use in France or the United States because Dodo had delayed approval for the use of his test in either country.
Not one major scientist, or representative of big Pharma, or PI (for Principal Investigator) of the forthcoming clinical trials, is noticeably audible in response to this heartbreaking roadblock.
The state of UC research is increasingly considered to be so shoddy as to curtail new scientists willing to enter the field. It had all sounded exciting and adventurous, but that was years ago, when we were young.
Included in some last-minute appropriations is an extra $8.5 million for FADS to rush the approval of Dodo’s UC test. He has, at last, been successful in holding the world up for ransom and is now guaranteed his half share of all worldwide royalties. Now Jacquie is able to give her permission to pump her test out fast as well. The Ruester administration, however, decides it will use only $475,000 of the funds for the blood test, allowing the rest of the money to revert back to the treasury.
So once again a test to determine if blood is infected with UC remains unavailable in the United States. Infected blood is now infecting the entire country.
Statistics, numbers, hard facts about the state of this plague from any government agency continue to be unavailable. If they were, we’d see how they contradict each other.
“It is like a Watergate cover-up,” said Dr. Philo Schwartzenbaum in Munich. “It all started with a theft by your Dodo. Doctors everywhere lose faith in American science.”
Finally AudaciaUSA funds Dodo’s blood test, and FADS approves its use. This is more than four years after this test could have been available in France, where Audacia et Cie was able to put out Jacquie’s test. Few know yet how unreliable Dodo’s test will prove to be. One wonders how FADS tested it, much less approved it. One wonders how AudaciaUSA can put it out. More than half the people who take the test are told they’re infected when they’re not. False positives, they’re called. Pregnant women have immediate abortions. People commit suicide. People of all colors and interests are ignorant about this. No one writes about this.
The New York Truth still won’t write about UC. Gertie (Mrs. Jacob) Flourtower, in her cups on one of those many weekends when her husband’s away, commiserates with several of her gay friends in an East Side bar: “Yes, Jakie fires any faggot Johnny on the spot. ‘I got to fire every poofter I can sniff and smell,’ he says. ‘This UC shit proves I’m right.’ He practically had a heart attack when his sweet favorite reporter Jeffrey Schmaltz collapsed in front of him. Now, which of you real men will buy me another vodka stinger?”
And how could we have overlooked what’s called the “Treaty of Franeeda,” allowing Jerry to be in complete charge of the UC clinical trials. Grebstyne and Middleditch had established a workable system going back many years, of conducting clinical trials. Jerry’s never done one and is staffing up with has-beens. What this portends, clear as a lesion on any gay man’s body, is a lot more unnecessary deaths. It will take Jerry too many years to build a new system up from scratch. Jerry must have known this would happen. Is it arrogance or intentional?
DEEP THROAT
The “act of giving” in legal terminology is meant to extend for the entire life of the gift, in activo res, as an active thing. This is an important concept in disease as well. Even though the virility of a pathogen may decline, it’s still considered to be “given for good.” The establishment of a home in the host is thus factually protected, in legal and in medical terms.
* * *
Such a nice gesture in my behalf! Thanks so very very much.
AN ARMY OF LOVERS MUST NOT DIE
FRED CONTINUES COMPILING HIS LIST
Ed DiPasquale, Matt Schutz X, Brett Adams, Carmen Allesio, Brandy Alexander, Justin Alexander, Rev. Charles Angel, Way Bandy, Jim Beck, Michael Bennett, Jim Boatwright, Mel Boozer, Bobby Borland, Arthur Bresson, Michael Brody, Roscoe Browne, Alan Buchsbaum, Jody Callahan, Bobbi Campbell, Lynne Carter, Henry Chenoff, Tony Clavely (Alessandro Abrizzi’s lover) X, Ben Codispoti, John Congers,——Coppola (Vinnie Coppola of Newsweek’s brother), Jesue Corkes, Terry Costello, Richmond Crinkley, Jeffrey Croland, Joel Crothers, Cal Culver (aka Casey Donovan), Curt Dawson X, Larry Deason. Steve Del Re, Robert Denning, Harry Diaz, Ron Doud X, Angelo Donghia, Dr. Larry Downs, Robert Drivas, John Duka X, Donald Driver, Richard Dulong, Alan Dumont (lover of Bruce Kaye), Perry Ellis, Bill Elliott X, Kelly English, Nathan Fain, Mel Fante, Artie Felson, Robert Ferro X, Ron Field, Gary Fifield, Peter Fonseca, Bob Forcina, Ray Ford, Michel Foucault, Xavier Fourcade, Brad Frandsen, Stan Freeman, Carlton Fuller, Herb Gaines, Armando Galvez (Flamingo DJ), Ken Gaston (bar owner), Mort Gindi, Larry Goldberg, Bob Golden (Bruce Niles’s roommate), Lee Goodman, Herb Gower, Paul Graham, Tolin Greene, Michael Greer, Richard Greene X, Peter Grimes, Michael Grumley, Sam Haddad, Jack Hedaya, Jack Hefton, Larry Henry (lover of Rick Janson, already dead), Emery Hetrick, Colin Higgins, Kevin Higgins, Anthony Holland, Fritz Holt, Roger Horwitz (Paul Monette’s lover), Peter Hujar, David Jackson, Paul Jacobs (concert pianist), Steve Jacobs (Alice’s hairdresser), Robin Jacobsen X, Rick Janson X, Tom Jefferson, Robert Joffrey, Tom Johnson, Harry Kalkanis (John-David Wilder’s lover), Jim Kamel (Billy Bernardo’s lover), Stan Kamen (Adreena’s agent), Bruce Kaye, Ed Knudsen (architect of new GMPA office), Bill Kraus, Donald Krintzman, Barry Laine, Leon Lambert X, Ralph Landis, Phil Lanzaretta, Robert La Tourneaux, Steve Lax, Wilford Leech, Jean Leger, Bob Lemond, Ron Lohse X, Larry Londino X, Diego Lopez, Charles Ludlum, Jim McCabe (lawyer for Paul Weiss), Joe McDonald, Phil Magdaleny, Michael Maletta, Phil Mandelker. Royal Marks, Leonard Matlovich, Court Miller, Ed Moore (fireman, Norm Rathweg’s friend), John Myers, Paul Myers, Jack Nau, Max Navarre, Hugo Niehaus X, Frank O’Dowd, Larry Okin, Don Otto, Kevin Patterson, Phil Patrick, Joe Peckerman, Glenn Person, Michael Pitkin X, David Poole, Deyan Popavik (gold speculator friend of Val’s), Reuven Proctor-Levi (Tarsh’s old boyfriend), Shelley, Paul Rapoport, Tony Rappa X, Norman Rathweg, Stephen Richards, Jim Reissar (Dora Dull), Michael Riley, Michael Rock, Nick Rock, Ed Roginski (Sue Barton’s boss at Universal), Bertram Belberg (the Divine Bella), Bernie Rubinstein, Harvey Sakofsky, Jonathan Sand, Luis Sanjuro X, Paul Sansone X, Neil Sansted (Channel 13 art dept., friend of Harvey Marks), Stash Santoro, Bruce Savan X, Michael Sklar, Carroll Sledz (Bob Alfandre’s lover), Douglas Smith (Yaddah Gala), Justin Smith X, Willi Smith, Ray Spellman X, Charlie Springman X, David Summers, Michael Taylor, Carl Thomas, Bruce Thompson, Jacques Tiffeau X, David Towt, Bill Touw (Tom Hatcher’s old lover), Orsi Ullman (Feffer da Roma’s best friend), Richard Umans X, Richard “Boo Boo” Bronstein, Tom Victor, Peter Vogel, Dr. Tom Waddell, Sam Wagstaff, Bill Whitehead, Lou Walker X, Cade Ware, Steven Webb, Bruce Weintraub, Rick Wellikoff, Ron Wilson (decorator, L.A.), Steve Wolin, Lee Wright, Howard Brookner, Tom Victor, Tony Lambert, Rick Horton X, Dr. Barry Gingell, Peter Evans, Perky Feinstein …
An “X” after the names above means I had sex with them at some point in time. Or went to bed with them. Or made love with them. We who had once been called hushmarkeds still don’t know what to call what we’ve been doing.
STATE OF THE FRED
I wrote my book and articles. I helped start GMPA. I wrote my movie. I wrote my play. I write another play. I had my first emergency hospitalization. My liver is trying to tell me something. I was pissing blood. I’d even gone to Auschwitz looking for … what?
Do I sound like I’m losing it? Some days I just can’t tell.
Get off your fucking ass!
A CATHOLIC VISIT
At the Mercy of Mary Hospital out on Long Island, Mother
Bertha, the matron in charge, said to me, “So you are what a healthy homosexual looks like. All my boys here are sick, and they deny they are homosexuals. ‘What are you, then?’ I ask them in my best Mother Superior manner. ‘Jesus knows, so why not fess up?’ This does not go down well, and I suspect I am doing more harm than good by invoking Jesus as a way to get them to tell the truth. I beg you, Mr. Lemish, tell me if I am wrong. Would not more honesty be better for all concerned? I have had a number of strange suicides of—I hesitate to put it this way—of a particularly religious Catholic nature.” She then showed me photographs of various hideous self-inflicted acts: immolations, burned bodies, charred bones and unrecognizable faces; hangings, with hands still clutching dangling crucifixes; slit wrists, several emasculations, also self-inflicted according to Mother Bertha; two boys who ODed on sleeping pills who had laid themselves down in their own decorated coffin, again holding crucifixes and each other’s hands. “It is amazing how your religion has so permeated their beings, even unto death,” I ventured. She answered, “Is this not as it should be? Is it not the way we have lived for thousands of years? I am told these clothes they wore in their coffin were their confirmation suits. I suppose they had lost so much weight that they still could fit.” Before I left she took my hand and said, “We are not the most progressive community, but then I doubt there are many places that are, with this ailment, or can be, given our vows. Needless to say, there is no one in authority in our diocese who is competent to deal with this. Our priests are particularly speechless. Messages to Rome have been useless. Perhaps I should not reveal any of this. Perhaps I should not even be talking to you. It is almost biblical, the tests we are being put to, do you not agree? Even though you are obviously a Hebrew.”
