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"Brendan? What time is it?" Cal struggled to sit up. The effort set off another fit of coughing. The great wracking coughs were painful to hear. The fit left Cal gasping for breath. Brendan rose from his chair, "just after eleven, how are you feeling?" "I've been better," Cal said, drawing a deep breath. Each breath was an effort, and the coughing fits left him weaker each time they came. "Did you sleep?" Brendan asked, coming to stand by the side of Cal's bed. "Yes, were you gone?" Cal asked. "I think I woke up for a minute and you weren't here." "I went to the store, for some tea and water," Cal said, "you wanted more water." "Thanks kid," Cal's voice was soft, hoarse. Brendan helped Cal sit up. It was like handling some fragile antique doll. So much of Cal was already gone. It hurt to think about it, he had been so strong. The dark green sheets were damp. "You're having fevers again, aren't you?" Brendan said. He'd only flown in from Minneapolis two days ago, but he was learning the signs. "Aw god, it's fever one minute, chills the next," Cal said, "I can't make up my mind. I think I can take more of the water though." "I'll pour a fresh glass," Brendan said, crossing the small apartment, "the old one's gone flat." He stepped into the kitchenette and got the the tall bottle out of the refrigerator. Cal started coughing again. Brendan jumped and spilled some of the water on the counter. That sound, you could hear the lungs fighting to clear space for the air. He carried the cool glass to back to the bed beside the windows and stood there a moment, looking for some sign whether Cal needed help handling it. Last night Cal's grip had failed him and the water had spilled. "I'll take it, no spills, I promise," Cal said, making the Boy Scout pledge-sign with his fingers. Brendan went to the big black leather chair at the foot of the bed and slumped into it. He was tired. Cal drank from the glass slowly, taking tiny sips, swallowing carefully. He set the glass down soundlessly on the glass-topped table at the side of the bed and lay his head back on the pillows with a sigh. Every action, every movement used some of his small store of energy. Brendan looked at him laying there, wondering. When Cal was quiet he could see none of the man he had known in the form on the bed. In the six months since Cal had last visited in Minneapolis he had aged from 40 to 90 with no stop for the Golden Years in between. Cal's eyes opened, brighter than they had been. "Brendan boy, you're scared, aren't you?" The sudden truth made Brendan's throat tight. He couldn't speak. He nodded. "Come here," Cal said, holding out his hand. Brendan rose and went to him, sitting on the side of the bed. "That's O.K. kid, dying's scary shit, I know," Brendan held Cal as tightly as he dared. Cal surprised him with a strong squeeze back. Brendan's tears flowed and loosed his tongue. "I don't want to lose you Cal. You taught me so much. I'm not done loving you." "But the teacher's gotta let the student go Bren. You've been away two years. You learned most of your lessons " Cal patted Brendon on the back hard and broke the embrace. His cheeks were wet with their own tears. "Now listen boy, and listen good," Cal said, trying for a stern voice, "I wanted you here," his voice broke, "I wanted you here because we aren't done." Cal's voice was softer now, "we aren't done, but time is about up. The bell's gonna ring for me, and there's still a few things" A coughing fit cut the sentence off. Cal rolled with the convulsions of coughing. Brendan had to hold him, to keep him in the bed. Afterwards Cal could only lay there, gasping. "Is tonight the night Cal?" Brendan asked, his voice almost a whisper. Cal closed his eyes, recovering his breath. "I don't know Bren. Last night I lay here, watching you sleep in that chair. It was beautiful. I really wanted to see the dawn, to see the morning light on you. Tonight, the sun is gone, and I'm not sure how much I care." Silence stretched out. Brendan watched Cal drift back into sleep. His tears dried up, leaving behind a knot of anger and grief. A whole generation of us is dying, he thought, and they don't care. A feeling of helplessness washed over him and he stood, walking to the windows. San Francisco was drifting to sleep. Cal's apartment took the third floor of an old hardware store building at the top of a hill. From the tall arched windows at the front you could look out on the green expanse of the Presidio, stretching to the Pacific. From the windows in the back of the apartment you could just see the bright, all-night glow of the Castro. Brendan stepped back from the window and turned his eyes inward, on the apartment. Before this trip he had never visited Cal here, yet the place felt familiar. The furnishings were the same as the warehouse loft he had spent so much time in in Minneapolis, and what was new still bore Cal's individual stamp. Even the motorcycle in the apartment was the same. The same big black BMW that Cal and he had ridden the night they met. How Cal managed to find two apartments with freight elevators for the bike was a mystery. Brendan walked over to the bike, parked in front of the elevator's doors. Fondly, he ran his hand over the cool curve of the tank, then the seat. He smiled. He remembered the night he met Cal.
It had been Spring, an extraordinary March night, full of promise. Brendan had been out for almost an hour, so it must have been around eleven. He'd been down at the Saloon watching the young, pretty crowd there. The few drinks he'd had there helped him get up the courage to go down to the other end of the avenue. He'd been to the Men's Room before. Sometimes it was almost empty, but once in a while it was filled with the men in black. On those nights leather was everywhere. Jackets, pants, chaps, boots and harnesses. Nights like that were what kept bringing Brendan back. Just outside of the side-street door to the bar though was parked a motorcycle. It was a black BMW, a sport bike. The full coverage black body work seemed to soak up the light that fell on it. For some reason that bike suddenly seemed like the most erotic thing in the world. He stood, entranced, staring at it. "It is beautiful, isn't it?" A voice behind Brendan made him jump. He turned, embarrassed. Behind him stood a man in faded jeans, black engineer's boots, a white t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. The outfit marked him as a customer of the Men's Room on one of its' better nights. The helmet, hanging from his hand marked him as the owner of the bike. "Uh, yea," Brendan fumbled. "I'm Cal," the other said, extending his hand. "Brendan," Brendan replied. "Do you ride Brendan?" Cal asked, moving around to the other side of the bike. "No," Brendan answered, not sure which he wanted to look at, the bike or the man. He chose Cal. The man stood tall, almost six foot. He was trim, but not obviously muscular. His hair was a dark brown and straight with just enough grey at the temples to be seen under the street lights. "I mean I haven't," Brendan amended. "You'd like to though?" "You mean now?" Brendan asked. In answer, Cal held out the helmet he held. Brendan thought for a moment, reached out, and took it. The ride was exhilarating, as much for the man he had his arms around, as for the speed and the sweeping turns. There was a peculiar sort of intimacy there. Conversation was limited by the rush of the wind and the helmets, but they were, by necessity, in close physical contact. They rode out of the downtown warehouse district to uptown, then to the lakes. Cal rolled the bike to a stop in one of the parking areas on the shore of lake Calhoun. They sat in the silence of the night for a moment, the bike clicking and popping underneath them as it cooled. Brendan's hands were numb from the wind. They looked across the water at the downtown skyline. "Well, what'd you think?" Cal asked, pulling off his helmet. "It's a hell of a lot more interesting than a car," Brendan grinned. They got off the bike and walked to a nearby park bench. "That it is," Cal said, sitting, "that it is So, Brendan, did I interrupt you on your way into the Men's Room?" "Umm, yea, I was headed there when I saw the bike," Brendan said softly. "You're still a little bit shy about places like that aren't you?" Cal asked. Brendan paused, wanting to deny it, "No, I'm Yea, you're right. None of my friends are into any of it, they give me a hard time" he stopped, embarrassed. "But you can't help but go, right?" Cal prompted. "Yea, that's it," Brendan nodded, "Some nights that place is magic. I get off just on the energy. I know, down at the other end of the street I'd have better luck scoring, but that doesn't change the fact." "No, it wouldn't," Cal said softly. "Sometimes, it's like coming out all over again. New people, new rules, new adventures," Brendan was rubbing his hands together, trying to get the warmth back into them. "You ever go home with someone from the Men's Room?" Cal asked. Brendan didn't reply right away, wondering if this was some backwards sort of pick-up line. "Yea once or twice" "and" Cal probed. Brendan moved to the end of the bench and turned facing Cal. "I should tell you?" he asked. Cal laughed at the challenge in Brendan's voice. "No, you're right, strictly your own business. But it wasn't what you expected, was it?" Brendan continued to look at Cal, trying to guess what he was up to, "No, you're right, it wasn't. They didn't seem serious enough." That seemed to answer some question Cal needed the answer to. After that the conversation softened to more typical small talk. Brendan remembered his pleasure at finding out Cal was a university professor. Strangely enough the night didn't end, as Brendan had thought it would, in bed. Cal took Brendan for another, longer ride, flat-out down the midnight freeway and then dropped him off at his own, uptown, front door. There was a time when Brendan would have been crushed by a ride home and a chaste good-night kiss, this time he was fascinated. Cal was in his mind for days.
"Brendan?" Cal's voice jerked him back to the present. "You were smiling, memories?" "The night we met. Remember Cal? What were you up to that night?" Brendan asked. "Aw, come on Brendan, a bright boy like you? You must have figured it out?" Cal replied, grinning. "It was a test, wasn't it? You're always playing the teacher. You wanted to see if I was just another pretty boy who wandered into the leather bar by mistake, or if I wanted to look a little deeper." "Guilty. I've spent fifteen years in the classroom Bren, it's a habit. I was testing myself too. I was suceptible as the next guy to a pretty face. I wanted to see if you'd hold my interest. You did." "I waited for your call desperatly," Brendan remembered. "I wasn't sure whether you'd call or not." "But I did." "Yes, and took me to dinner. God! I'll never forget that night. I wasn't sure if it was an interview, or the most intellectual pick-up ever. All those questions you asked! We talked about everything!" "Until the restaurant closed" Cal remembered. "And then I was your's," Brendan said, moving back to Cal's bedside, "signed, sealed, and delivered." "Aw come on boy, let's not get mushy here, 'ready for a leash' was more like it," Cal laughed, then coughing came again, choking off the laugh. When it passed and Cal lay gasping, his eyes showed only weariness. Brendan sat helplessly, holding Cal's hand. He couldn't escape the idea that Cal was going to be gone. This damn disease was taking him. Who would be next? The disease didn't care if it was the man who gave you your manhood, your new boyfriend, or some dope addict. It just sucked their life away. Sex couldn't be safe, that joy was gone. Loving couldn't be safe, your love might be stolen away. The things that made life worth living now carried a death sentence. "Have you got a man now Bren?" Cal asked. He was always dammnably direct. "I did" Brendan replied. "And" Cal asked. "I cut out. It just didn't work out Cal. He didn't listen." "He was HIV positive, wasn't he?" "Yea, Jack had been positive for years," Brendan answered softly. "So did that have anything to do with it?" Cal pressed. "No!" Brendan answered, "No, it was just that I didn't think we had a future. He was mad because he thought I was getting frigid on him. He didn't understand." "When did you leave him?" "In January, just after I heard you were sick" "You heard I was sick and you got to thinking didn't you? Thinking about the future; you had a taste of the pain of losing and didn't want any more, you cut your losses." Brendan flushed, angry, "How would you know? And what if I did? What's the point Cal?" Brendan was almost yelling. "What's the point of loving someone when they're just going to die?" "We all die kid," Cal said, slumping back into the bed. "We all die, and you can't know when. Just because HIV isn't stalking your bloodstream doesn't mean you're going to live forever. Just because some man tells you he's not positive doesn't make him the perfect husband." "But I'm so scared Cal, I can't tell anyone, but I'm scared What's safe? Is sex worth dying for? I don't want to get sick." "Brendan, I was positive the whole time we were together. You knew that. We talked about it the first night." "I remember. It was all so academic then though. You're dying Cal. I feel like I'm losing my soul. I don't want to go through it. I'm not going to expose myself." "So, what are you going to do? No more friends? No more dates? Make every man you start feeling attached to show you his lab report? Toss them off, like Jack, when they fail?" Cal was sitting up in the bed again, angry. His voice was a soft, hoarse, shout. "You can't Bren. You can't close yourself off. It'd be as bad as dying. You know it. We need people, we need love. Gods, you fought so hard for your right to love other men, for the strength to wear your colors, to wear your leather proud. Don't throw it away!" "But I don't want to get sick Cal," Brendan was almost crying again. Cal put his arms around other's shoulders. "You won't Bren. You know how to be safe. You play the game by those rules, but play it. If all of us withdrew, afraid to reach out, they'd win. The ones who want us outlawed, put away. We'd do their work for them. Remember Gay Pride in '88? My speech?" "An Army of Lovers," Brendan recalled. He felt again a part of the joy Cal had created in the crowd that afternoon. The speech made sex a revolutionary act, the drag queens and leathermen brave heroes, and AIDS a skirmish in a battle for the right to love who you wanted. "I meant it, Bren. Every word. I still believe it. Sex isn't death. It's the best way to affirm life. Silence, staying hidden, that's death." Cal had worked himself up to a breathless state, talking until he didn't have the air for more. He fell back against the cushions. "Please, more water." Brendan went back to the kitchen and refilled the glass. When he got back to the bed, Cal was asleep. Brendan sat on the side of the bed for a few minutes, listening to Cal's breathing. It was slow and ragged, accompanied by a gurgling sound from behind the breastbone. Carefully, Brendan rose from the bed and began to walk around the apartment. He ran his hand across the smooth lines of the BMW again. He picked up the helmet. Cal had always insisted on them. "Motorcycles are death machines; sure you give in to your baser desires when you ride, but you can at least do it safely," he'd said. Brendan smiled at the purposeful contradiction. Cal had taught Brendan to ride. He'd helped Brendan buy his first bike to learn on, and his second, the next season, "for real riding." They'd spent a whole summer out on two wheels. He put the helmet down. He walked over to the kitchenette and started to put things away. Safety, what was it worth? What would you give up for it? The wind in your hair as you rocketed down the freeway? Yes, that could be given up for he protection of the helmet. The ride itself? No, not that. Life needed some spice. Brendan finished loading the dishwasher, and started wiping off the counters. In one corner, sitting at the back of the counter was a black stone jar Brendan recognized. In Minneapolis there had been a key in that jar. A key to a special place. Smiling, Brendan reached for the heavy thing and worked the trick that opened the lid. At the bottom was a key, not the same key, but Brendan knew it would be to the same place. Brendan took the key and walked down the apartment's central hall. There was the bathroom, the office, and one locked door. Brendan knew what was behind the door, but he wanted to see it again, to remember. He put the key in the lock and reached inside, turning on the lights. Dim red light flooded the room. It was small, the walls were black. Leather, chrome, and latex toys lay on shelves and hung from the walls, all within easy reach. In the center of the room hung the sling, a square leather web suspended at each corner with a stout chain. Brendan stroked one of the chains and listened to the soft rattle. His hand caught on the red hanky tied around the chain just above one of the stirrups. There were memories in this room. Powerful memories. This was where Cal had put the meanings of his speech into action. Brendan's memories of this place, or rather the same room in Minneapolis, were almost a palpable thing, almost a physical treasure he could touch and feel the shape of. Here Cal had given him tests, gently asked his body questions. Brendan's responses had been affirmative, ecstatic. Brendan sat on the stool at the foot of the sling and felt the warmth and protective power of the room. He probed the shape of the memories. He remembered the rituals, the surrender of power and receiving of pain. The cleansing and renewal. Outside worries and troubles were lifted, made distant, by time in this place. What is safety worth? What had to be given up? He looked at the sling. Not that, perhaps. That joy was too vital. He looked at the shelf on the wall, the gloves, the condoms. Are they enough protection? The fear came back but Brendan pushed it away with memories of Cal in this place. Brendan stood, thinking it was time to check on Cal again. As he was leaving the small room he noticed something framed on the back of the door. This was new. He angled the door so the frame caught the light. Large letters on a plain white sheet read, "This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine. - The Tempest, Prospero." Brendan smiled at the message. Be whole, acknowledge your whole self. He turned out the light and re-locked the door.
Cal was awake again, sitting up and reading. Though awake, his breathing was even more labored than before. "You found the key," Cal said, closing the book. Brendan flushed, "Yeah, I was cleaning in the kitchen and I saw the jar." "Good memories?" Cal queried. "Some of my best Cal," Brendan said. "You can make more Bren. There's time. There's other men." Brendan knelt at the side of the bed and took Cal's hand. "I know Cal. You're not replaceable, but there are other good men." Cal smiled and nodded. "What time is it now?" he asked, his voice getting thick. Brendan checked his watch, "Just past one." Brendan saw Cal's eyes flutter, fighting to stay open. "Life," Cal's voice was a whisper, "is worth the risk Kid." Brendan's throat tightened. "I know Cal." Cal smiled and his eyes closed again. His breathing seemed to stop for a moment and Brendan leaned close, afraid. No, there, the breath came. Slow, uneven, but still there. Brendan walked over to the tall bookcase between the windows and looked for a book. He selected one, walked back to his chair, and started to read. Presently he dozed off. Brendan awoke. The sky in the east was just beginning to lighten. The room seemed empty. He crossed quickly to the bed. Cal lay, quiet. His eyes closed, his chest still. Brendan sat on the edge of the bed and laid his head on Cal's chest. Silently, he let the tears roll down his cheeks. When the tears had run their course he sat up. The book Cal had been reading was still in the cool hand, the index finger marking his place. Carefully Brendan took the book and opened it. Blinking away the last of his tears he read. in time of daffodils(who know in time of daffodils (who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why, remember how in time of lilacs who proclaim the aim of waking is to dream, remember so (forgetting seem) in time of roses (who amaze our now and here with paradise) forgetting if, remember yes in time of all sweet things beyond whatever mind may comprehend, remember seek (forgetting find) and in a mystery to be (when time from time shall set us free) forgetting me, remember me e. e. cummings
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