he putters around with his coffee maker. I sit down on a
folding chair and wait for Ben to finish.
More than anyone else I know, Ben looks like a librarian. And I did in fact
meet him at Rosary, but he quit before finishing his MLS. He has gotten thinner
since I saw him last, and lost a little more hair. Ben has AIDS, and every time I see
him I pay attention, because I never know how it will go, with him.
"You're looking good " I tell him.
"Massive doses of AZT. And vitamins, and yoga, and visual imaging.
Speaking of which. What can I do for you?"
"I'm getting married."
Ben is surprised, and then delighted. "Congratulations. To whom?"
"Clare. You met her. The girl with very long red hair."
"Oh-yes." Ben looks grave. "She knows?"
"Yes."
"Well, great." He gives me a look that says that this is all very nice, but what
of it?
"So her parents have planned this huge wedding, up in Michigan. Church,
bridesmaids, rice, the whole nine yards. And a lavish reception at the Yacht Club,
afterward. White tie, no less."
Ben pours out coffee and hands me a mug with Winnie the Pooh on it. I stir
powdered creamer into it. It's cold up here, and the coffee smells bitter but kind
of good.
"I need to be there. I need to get through about eight hours of huge,
mind-boggling stress, without disappearing."
"Ah." Ben has a way of taking in a problem, just accepting it, which I find very
soothing.
"I need something that's going to K.O. every dopamine receptor I've got."
"Navane, Haldol, Thorazine, Serentil, Mellaril, Stelazine..." Ben polishes his
glasses on his sweater. He looks like a large hairless mouse without them.
"I was hoping you could make this for me." I fish around in my jeans for the
paper, find it and hand it over. Ben squints at it, reads.
"3-[2-[4-96-fluoro-l,2-benizisoxazol-3-yl)...colloidal silicon dioxide,
hydroxypropyl methylcellulose.. .propylene glycol-" He looks up at me,
bewildered. "What is this?"
"It's a new antipsychotic called risperidone, marketed as Risperdal. It will be
commercially available in 1998, but I would like to try it now. It belongs to a new
class of drugs called benzisoxazole derivatives."
"Where did you get this?"
"PDR. The 2000 edition."
"Who makes it?"
"Janssen."
"Henry, you know you don't tolerate antipsycotics very well. Unless this
works in some radically different way?"
"They don't know how it works. 'Selective monoaminergic antagonist with
high affinity for serotonin type 2, dopamine type 2, blah blah blah."
"Well, same old same old. What makes you think this is going to be any better
than Haldol?"
I smile patiently. "It's an educated guess. I don't know for sure. Can you make
that?"
Ben hesitates. "I can, yes"
"How soon? It takes a while to build up in the system."
"I'll let you know. When's the wedding?"
"October 23 "
"Mmm. What's the dosage?"
"Start with 1 milligram and build from there."
Ben stands up, stretches. In the dim light of this cold room he seems old,
jaundiced, paper-skinned. Part of Ben likes the challenge (hey, let's replicate this
avant-garde drug that nobody's even invented yet) and part of him doesn't like the
risk. "Henry, you don't even know for sure that dopamine's your problem."
"You've seen the scans."
"Yeah, yeah. Why not just live with it? The cure might be worse than the
problem."
"Ben. What if I snapped my fingers right now-" I stand up, lean close to him,
snap my fingers: "and right now you suddenly found yourself standing in Allen's
bedroom, in 1986-"
"-I'd kill the fucker."
"But you can't, because you didn't." Ben closes his eyes, shakes his head.
"And you can't change anything: he will still get sick, you will still get sick, und
so wiete. What if you had to watch him die over and over?" Ben sits in the folding
chair. He's not looking at me. "That's what it's like, Ben. I mean, yeah, sometimes
it's fun. But mostly it's getting lost and stealing and trying to just...."
"Cope." Ben sighs. "God, I don't know why I put up with you."
"Novelty? My boyish good looks?"
"Dream on. Hey, am I invited to this wedding?"
I am startled. It never occurred to me that Ben would want to come. "Yeah!
Really? You would come?"
"Beats funerals."
"Great! My side of the church is filling up rapidly. You'll be my eighth guest."
Ben laughs. "Invite all your ex-girlfriends. That'll swell the ranks."
"I'd never survive it. Most of them want my head on a stick."
"Mmm ." Ben gets up and rummages in one of his desk drawers. He pulls out
an empty pill bottle and opens another drawer, takes out a huge bottle of
capsules, opens it and places three pills in the small bottle. He tosses it to me.
"What is it?" I ask, opening the bottle and shaking a pill onto my palm.
"It's an endorphin stabilizer combined with an antidepressant. It's- hey,
don't-" I have popped the pill into my mouth and swallowed. "It's
morphine-based." Ben sighs. "You have the most casually arrogant attitude
toward drugs."
"I like opiates."
"I bet. Don't think I'm going to let you have a ton of those, either. Let me know
if you think that would do the job for the wedding. In case this other thing
doesn't pan out. They last about four hours, so you would need two." Ben nods
at the two remaining pills. "Don't gobble those up just for fun, okay?"
"Scout's honor."
Ben snorts. I pay him for the pills and leave. As I walk downstairs I feel the
rush grab me and I stop at the bottom of the stairs to luxuriate in it. It's been a
while. Whatever Ben has mixed in here, it's fantastic. It's like an orgasm times ten
plus cocaine, and it seems to be getting stronger. As I walk out the front door I
practically trip over Gomez. He's been waiting for me.
"Care for a ride?"
"Sure." I am deeply moved by his concern. Or his curiosity. Or whatever. We
walk to his car, a Chevy Nova with two bashed headlights. I climb into the
passenger seat. Gomez gets in and slams his door. He coaxes the little car into
starting and we set off.
The city is gray and dingy and it's starting to rain. Fat drops smack the
windshield as crack houses and empty lots flow by us. Gomez turns on NPR and
they're playing Charles Mingus who sounds a little slow to me but then again
why not? it's a free country. Ashland Avenue is full of brain-jarring potholes but
otherwise things are fine, quite fine actually, my head is fluid and mobile, like
liquid mercury escaped from a broken thermometer, and it's all I can do to keep
myself from moaning with pleasure as the drug laps all my nerve endings with
its tiny chemical tongues. We pass ESP Psychic Card Reader, Pedro's Tire Outlet,
Burger King, Pizza Hut, and I am a Passenger runs through my head weaving its
way into the Mingus. Gomez says something which I don't catch and then again,
"Henry!"
"Yes?"
"What are you on?"
"I'm not quite sure. A science experiment, of sorts."
"Why?"
"Stellar question. I'll get back to you on that."
We don't say anything else until the car stops in front of Clare and Charisse's
apartment. I look at Gomez in confusion.
"You need company," he tells me gently. I don't disagree. Gomez lets us in
the front door and we walk upstairs. Clare opens the door and when she sees me
she looks upset, relieved, and amused, all at once.
Clare: I have talked Henry into getting into my bed, and Gomez and I are sitting
in the living room drinking tea and eating peanut butter and kiwi jelly
sandwiches.
"Learn to cook, woman," intones Gomez. He sounds like Charleton Heston
handing down the Ten Commandments.
"One of these days." I stir sugar into my tea. "Thank you for going and getting
him."
"Anything for you, kitten." He starts to roll a cigarette. Gomez is the only
person I know who smokes during a meal. I refrain from commenting. He lights
up. He looks at me, and I brace myself. "So, what was that little episode all
about, hmm? Most of the people who go to Compassionate Pharmacopoeia are
AIDS victims or cancer patients."
"You know Ben?" I don't know why I'm surprised. Gomez knows everybody.
"I know of Ben. My mom used to go to Ben when she was having chemo."
"Oh." I review the situation, searching for things I can safely mention.
"Whatever Ben gave him really put him in the Slow Zone."
"We're trying to find something that will help Henry stay in the present."
"He seems a little too inanimate for daily use."
"Yeah." Maybe a lower dosage?
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Aiding and abetting Mr. Mayhem. Marrying him, no less."
Henry calls my name. I get up. Gomez reaches out and grabs my hand.
"Clare. Please-"
"Gomez. Let go." I stare him down. After a long, awful moment he drops his
eyes and lets me go. I hurry down the hall into my room and shut the door.
Henry is stretched out like a cat, diagonally across the bed face down. I take
off my shoes and stretch out beside him.
"How's it going?" I ask him.
Henry rolls over and smiles. "Heaven." He strokes my face. "Care to join me?"
No.
Henry sighs. "You are so good. I shouldn't be trying to corrupt you."
"I'm not good. I'm afraid." We lie together in silence for a long time. The sun is
shining now, and it shows me my bedroom in early afternoon: the curve of the
walnut bed frame, the gold and violet Oriental rug, the hairbrush and lipstick
and bottle of hand lotion on the bureau. A copy of Art in America with Leon
Golub on the cover lies on the seat of my old garage-sale armchair partially
obscured by A Rebours. Henry is wearing black socks. His long bony feet hang off
the edge of the bed. He seems thin to me. Henry's eyes are closed; perhaps he can
feel me staring at him, because he opens his eyes and smiles at me. His hair is
falling into his face and I brush it back. Henry takes my hand and kisses the
palm. I unbutton his jeans and slide my hand over his cock, but Henry shakes his
head and takes my hand and holds it.
"Sorry, Clare," he says softly. "There's something in this stuff that seems to
h