Floridian nights, p.17
Floridian Nights, page 17
Gary jumped from his chair. “I’m getting outta here.”
“Not yet!” Marty shouted. “I’m not finished! I envied you,” he said, pointing with accusation at Gary. “I always envied you, before I met Roger, even when I was with Roger, but especially after I lost Roger. At least you didn’t have to worry about being the next one to get sick. And now, now you tell me you are worried, that you have been all along!”
He turned back to Martin and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’m worried now, yes. It’s always been in the back of my mind. I’m no better than you, Marty. I never said I was–”
“And fuck you again,” Marty roared, shaking him off and rising from his chair in rage. “You said so in a thousand ways. Making fun of my ACT UP meetings. Too good, too clean for AIDS–”
“You got it backwards! Becker’s death didn’t count, ’cause it wasn’t AIDS! That’s the only way to sainthood with you and your crowd. I’m not responsible for what you’ve read into me. You’ve read this into my words, my actions–”
“Have I, now? Have I?”
“You’re drunk, Marty,” Gary said, only realizing it was so as he said it.
“Sure, sure. Chalk this whole truth-telling up to my substance abuse.”
“I’m leaving,” Gary reiterated, and this time he was.
“You better see your doctor, GG. You’re in big trouble. I hope you’re in big trouble.”
Nothing he had said prepared Gary for that. He whirled about and said to Marty in a deadly serious voice, “I will never forgive you for saying that.”
Stunned himself, Marty said, “Gary…I didn’t–”
But that was all Gary heard before he slammed the door behind him.
•
Becker and Gary had had a really good doctor, a gay man about their age, but he had been claimed by AIDS himself within six months of Becker’s death. Gary had subsequently gone to Julia’s doctor, a young woman named Jennifer Duwarkeyedene who had been born in Sri Lanka of an English mother and a Sinhalese father. Jennifer was cool, crisp, and efficient, very different from Gary’s previous doctor, but her style fit the mood of Gary’s widowhood. He left a message on Jennifer’s answering machine that evening and, to his surprise, the next morning – Labor Day morning – she returned the call.
“Gary?” she said in her heavy accent. “It is Jennifer. What is this emergency?”
“Jennifer, thanks for calling back so quickly. I’ve had this terrible cough that isn’t going away, and I’m tired all the time, and now…I’m coughing up blood.
There was a pause, and then she said, “We have never done an HIV test on you, have we?”
“No. You agreed there was no point.”
“Yes. Your T-cells have been normal. When did you last see me?”
“February, I think.”
There was another, longer pause, and then with no change in tone, she said, “Can you come to my office this afternoon, then?”
“Today? But today’s a holiday.”
“I believe that I am the one who is supposed to say that.”
Subdued, he said, “All right.”
Jennifer’s office was in a brownstone in Murray Hill (of course; she was, after all, Julia’s doctor). She let him in herself, had him take his shirt off, listened front and back with some kind of stethoscope, then had him put his shirt back on. Silently she scribbled things on a note pad.
Unable to bear it any longer, Gary finally asked “What’s up?” in an attempt at a normal tone of voice.
“I want you to go to Cabrini Hospital,” she said tonelessly, “for x-rays and a bronchoscopy.”
“Today?” he asked dumbly. Her words terrified him.
“Right now.” She glanced up at him, and obviously read the look on his face. “Do not make any assumptions. These are just to make sure.”
“Make sure what?”
“That you are all right, we hope.”
The hospital was sufficiently close that he was able to walk. There were quite a few people sitting around the understaffed emergency room who looked as if they needed attention, but his doctor’s note whisked him through. He spent the next couple of hours being poked, prodded, and photographed. The last technician who attended him, a large, sweet-natured Filipino man, seemed particularly accessible, so he asked him, “When will I get the results of these tests?”
The man looked down at the instructions Gary had handed him, then said, “Your doctor should get these tomorrow. Call him.”
“Her.”
He glanced at the stationery again. “Right, her.”
“Do you think it’s okay if I go to work?”
He shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. But if you feel okay enough to go, why not?”
•
He did, in fact, feel “okay enough” the next morning. Rather than sitting around waiting to call Jennifer, or for Jennifer to call him, he might as well go back to work. He’d already missed two days.
He noticed right away that many people seemed to still be out; a lot of folks must have decided to extend their holiday weekends. He was surprised to see that Anita was apparently one of them. If she’d wanted extra time at the last minute, of course, he hadn’t been there for her to ask him. When he saw a note on his desk written in an unfamiliar hand that simply said “Call LaVern,” he assumed it had to do with Anita’s absence.
He dialed Mitchell’s secretary, and she sounded a little rattled for a change. She asked him to hold, and after a moment she came back on the line and said, “Mr. Mitchell would like to see you now.”
Now what the hell was going on? He’d followed proper procedures in calling in sick.
Mitchell looked tense, and motioned for him to sit down. “How are you feeling today, Gaines?” he began.
“So-so, sir. But I wanted to come back to work. Was there something wrong with the final draft I turned in Wednesday?”
“The draft? The draft. No. No, it was all right.…But I’m afraid you missed a very – active – day here on Friday, Gaines.”
“Oh, sorry. Or maybe I should be glad that I did?”
“Maybe.”
“What happened?”
“I’m – I’m afraid we’re having to let more people go.”
Anita. No wonder she wasn’t at his desk. Now he’d have to share a secretary. He didn’t mind that part, really, but on Anita’s behalf he quietly seethed. “My secretary?” he said simply.
“She’s still here. She’s been transferred.”
“Transferred? If I have to share, why can’t I keep her?”
“Because – Gaines, it’s your position that’s one of the ones we’ve had to eliminate, I’m afraid.”
It didn’t register at first. Then: “I’ve been fired?”
“You’re being laid off. You know business hasn’t been that good. It was actually effective Friday, but I didn’t want to tell you on the phone, while you were sick–”
“You’re letting me go?”
“That’s about the size of it, Gaines. Now, we both know this is never pleasant or easy for either person in our–”
“How much does this have to do with our last conversation, last week?”
Mitchell glowered at him. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
“ ‘Thin ice.’ Isn’t that what you said?”
“It had nothing to do with that,” Mitchell repeated through clenched teeth.
“We’ll see.”
“What do you mean, we’ll see?”
“Nothing. What about severance?”
“It’s quite generous, given the short time you’ve been with us.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Don’t get smart, Gaines. We’re prepared to give you ’til the end of the year.”
“Meaning I have the privilege of working here for four more months?”
“No, you don’t have to keep working here. We’d prefer you didn’t, in fact. You can take this time to find another job.”
Even if they were counting his month’s worth of vacation, that made for three months’ severance pay. That was generous, and Gary knew it. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Mitchell. “I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure working with you, Mr. Mitchell. But I was brought up to tell the truth.”
“Your behavior has consistently had an odd childish streak to it, Gaines – in contrast to your generally exemplary work performance. I’ve never understood that.”
“We’ve never understood each other, sir. You should know that my time working for this company has not been the happiest of my life.”
“Perhaps this is all just as well, then.”
“You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? Can I ask who else has been laid off?”
“That’s none of your business, Gaines.”
“Well, the Human Rights Commission will want to know.”
Mitchell sighed in exasperation. “Gary, this has nothing to do with your being gay.”
“So you say.” He stood up. “I assume I’m allowed to clean out my desk?”
“Someone will have to supervise you.”
Gary knew it was standard operating procedure, but it made him bristle nonetheless. “And may I find my secretary so I can at least tell her goodbye?”
“I suggest you do that on your own time, if you wish. Not the company’s.”
“It is my own time now.”
“But it isn’t hers.”
“What a prick,” Gary muttered softly as he turned away.
“What?” Mitchell asked sharply.
“Nothing. Maybe we’ll see each other in court.”
•
He was amazed that two years of his working life could be cleared away in less than half an hour, even under the watchful eye of his “supervisor.” He was, abruptly, a non-person; people who would routinely say hello to him as recently as last week – those who had survived this latest cut – somehow found something to occupy them whenever he was in their vicinity. Friday must have been horrible; after all, today it was just Gary, but then it had been several people at once.
He strode to the elevator, his few personal effects in hand, without taking leave of anyone; but when the doors opened, they revealed his now-ex-secretary, who obviously had not planned this meeting. She looked down, looked up, blinked, and said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you Friday? I was told not to? And I didn’t know what to do?”
“It’s just as well.”
“I didn’t say anything?” she said, evidently referring to his reckless conversation with her.
“Of course not. Thanks for everything, Anita. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.”
“Thank you, Gary. I’ve never had a boss like you. I hope things go better in the next job.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then left the elevator as he entered.
He marveled that she had actually said three consecutive sentences as statements, not questions, and whispered, “Take care, Anita,” as the doors closed in front of him.
•
Not until he got home and played his answering machine did he remember the other pressing matter of the moment. With trepidation, he returned Jennifer’s call; although she was with a patient, the receptionist said she had left instructions to be interrupted in case Gary called. “Gary,” she said, “The results on the bronchoscopy were negative. But you do have fluid in your lungs.”
“What does that mean?”
“At the least, I believe it is what is usually called ‘walking pneumonia.’ But it would not seem to be pneumocystis at this time.”
As if hearing the dread word “pneumocystis” weren’t bad enough. “What do you mean, ‘at this time’?”
“I do not know exactly what it is you have. I want to make sure. I would like you to take an HIV test.”
“Why?”
“Just to be sure.”
“This is where we were yesterday–”
“No. We know this is not PCP, and we know there is something wrong. We just want to make sure it is not HIV-related.”
“Why is it so necessary to know that now, all of a sudden?”
“Gary, I will not argue with you. This is my advice.”
“Why? It hasn’t been before.”
“This infection worries me.”
“You think I have AIDS.”
“I have just told you you do not have PCP at this time.” The way she kept repeating that qualifying phrase infuriated him. “This is just one possibility we would like to eliminate.”
He tried to pause and take a deep breath, cool his anger at her. Why was she so damned imprecise? He tried to look at it her way: she wanted to be sure what she had here. If AIDS was one possibility, why not check for it, if only to eliminate it from the list?
Because if the result was positive, he’d have to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life, when maybe he didn’t have to, yet. “Where are you now?” she was saying.
“Back home.”
“You went to work?”
“You didn’t tell me not to, Jennifer.”
“It is probably not a good idea to–”
“Don’t worry about it,” he snapped. “I’m home now.” He was almost going to explain why, and then he checked himself as a new anxiety overcame him. Insurance! He had to find out if his severance included insurance. Until he knew, he wasn’t about to announce the loss of his job to his doctor.
“Will you come in again?”
“Give me a day to think about it.”
“But Gary–”
“Enough!” He hung up on his doctor.
•
He had had more in twenty-four hours than he could cope with, and he took another Valium. He dreamed of a very different Labor Day weekend, when he and Becker had, most uncharacteristically, accepted an invitation to Fire Island. Their friends had had a nice house, but even so, the resort was jam-packed the entire weekend, and it hadn’t felt like much of a vacation. Their nerves were a little frayed, and they decided to catch a boat back around sunset, earlier than they had anticipated. The dock was crowded and not everyone made it onto the ferry, but Becker muscled them on board. In the mad scramble for seats, they ended up in the open air of the upper deck, which was all right, since it was a clear, cool, beautiful evening.
Gary sat next to the railing, Becker next to him, both of them watching the deepening dark, the stars – so seldom visible in their city home – appearing one by one as if by magic, the island lights strung out along both sides of the Great South Bay like fragile luminescent jewels. Other than the lightweight jackets they were already wearing, they had only summer clothes, too insubstantial for the evening chill.
“You warm enough, Buckeye?” BB asked as the ferry launched, kicking up spray and wind. He didn’t wait for the answer, and wrapped his arms around Gary from behind.
“Not really.”
“I’ll keep you warm.”
“But who’ll keep you warm, Georgia Peach?”
“You will, Gary. I have confidence in you.”
“Look, Becker, it’s the Big Dipper.”
“And the North Star.”
“And the Summer Triangle.”
“And Leo.”
“You would point out Leo.” (It was Becker’s zodiac sign.)
The roll of the waves was just-right gentle, and the sky sparkled. For once in their lives, they were out of doors and part of a crowd that had no problem with the way they were holding, and nuzzling, each other. They were perfectly comfortable in a way that was rare for them when not alone together. “I love you, Buckeye,” BB would whisper periodically, and Gary would answer,
“I know, Georgia Peach. I love you, too.” He thought life had never felt so easy or so safe.
And maybe never again, Gary thought as he woke slowly from the dream. It had been, as it turned out, the last Labor Day he had shared with Becker. And now here Gary was, alone, jobless, and sick, his two closest friends pissed at him, one of his two latest flames a faithless airheaded child, and the other…
Right. Why not try Bill again?
“Ga-ry! How ya do-in’?” came the high-pitched voice, repeating last week’s opening line word for word, tone for tone.
“Well, actually, not too good, Bill.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Your cold still got you down?”
“It – uh – it looks like it might be something worse. Walking pneumonia, at least.”
“Oh. Are you contagious?”
“I don’t think so.” There followed an irritating silence on the other end, which Gary broke with, “There’s something else, too. I’m – I’m out of a job, too.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“You poor guy! You – sound like you need company?”
“I could use it, Bill.”
“I’ll be over in about an hour. Give me your address?”
Gary chose to ignore the initial awkwardness of their conversation. Bill had volunteered to do the decent thing, and he appreciated it.
Bill arrived an hour and a half later, brandishing some flowers and appearing ill at ease. Gary made to kiss him on the lips, but Bill turned his face and it landed on his cheek. “Just in case you are contagious,” he said with a forced joviality; then he kissed Gary on the cheek. “You don’t look so great.”
“You were expecting–?”
“What happened, anyway? Did you really lose your job?”
“I’m afraid so. They’ve had several layoffs since the crash, but I always managed to escape. But not this time.”
“That’s really tough, Gary.”
“You’re telling me. At least, I have to admit, the severance is decent – if it includes insurance. But the thing is, part of me thinks it happened to me because I’m gay.”
“How come?”
Gary realized a full explanation would involve a description of his lunch with Rick, which seemed less than pointless to discuss with Bill. So he said, “It’s just some conversations I had with my boss recently.”
“Did you do a complaint?”
