The Positive Man

His name is Ryan and he’s around fifty years old. I don’t think I’ve met a man shorter than him; however, he’s rather good-looking, with a V-silhouette and finely sculpted face. The speech flaw, in which his /r/ sounds as though he’d mixed up English and Serbian, is such a good fit to his character that I fail to imagine him without it.
Just the same, I can’t imagine him without the belly. Ryan has a very silly belly, so symmetrically rounded that it would blend in wonderfully in a pregnant woman’s photograph - completely unlike the everyday fat-ass beer leeches whose stomachs hang down like failed erections (mind you, I do drink the occasional beer myself and am completely fine with men having beer-bellies, but there is such a thing as too much). He is a man who smiles even when he doesn’t. No matter how serious the topic of discussion, there is an underlying tone in Ryan’s voice resembling a thread of sunshine in a tapestry of clouds.

My first memory of him is a small figure sitting nervously in a blue conference chair, in front of a gargantuan desk cluttered in cables, binders and loose sheets of paper, with twenty-or-so of us gawking at him. It was the third (and final) day of Reproductive Health education for the young local activists. A handful of people volunteering in the NGO Red Line, which organised the cycle, piqued our interest and we asked our mentor to be introduced to one… and then began hurling questions at the man.

- How were you infected with HIV?
- Through unsafe sex. I don’t know what the heck made me careless, but, well, it happened.
- What was your reaction when you found out?
- Initially, I intended to kill myself, because I didn't know anything about it. Then, when I informed myself a little, I realised it wasn’t all that bad.
- Do you know who gave you… I mean… well… who infected you?
- No. I never found out; and that’s the worst of it, to me. I have my suspicions, but that’s no use when I don’t know for sure, right?
- So, did you ever want to… uh, how can I say this… did you ever want to, like, go out and infect the world because you’ve been infected? I mean there are people who become angry, want a vengeance or something, so did that happen to you too?
- No, and I think it’s total idiocy. My infection is my own fault, and there’s no sense in venting it out on others who haven’t done me any wrong. I mean, it’s just such bullshit; I don’t approve of that way of thinking at all.

- Do you know any HIV-positive youngsters?
- Sure I do, but I don’t feel comfortable telling-
- No, no, of course not! That’s their own private thing, I was just curious to know if there were any young people who were infected.
- Regrettably so. The youngest HIV+ person I know is around 21 and those are mostly unsafe sex cases. And then, along comes a brat who’s only got himself to blame, and starts complaining and dumping it all on others, while having no idea what he’s talking about, and I just feel like slapping the moron. I mean, look: it was your decision to be careless; it’s nobody else’s fault, so don’t go staging a circus here. There’s information about everything, that’s why we’re here - to help; there’s therapy, there are doctors, and one can live a completely normal life.

- Do people in your environment know that you’re HIV+?
- Well, a few of my friends do, and my partner as well. Nobody has any idea at work. It’s none of their business.
- Where do you work?
- I work as a hairdresser.
- Are you married? Any children?
- Nope, and nope.
- Well alright; any plans of starting a family, getting married…?
- No, no; none whatsoever.
- I totally agree; women aren’t worth the work.

Rapid fire ensued; the boy curled up in his seat and Ryan laughed.

- Well now, I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been with a woman.
- You’ve never…?
- No; I’m gay.

Dead silence… dropping a feather would’ve echoed. Gay. “I’m gay”. An unstoppable grin stretched my face, cracking it from ear to ear. I must’ve looked like the mad Cheshire Cat.

- Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!

That likely had half the group giving me a blank stare, though, truth be told, I neither took any notice nor paid it any mind. All I saw was the man in the blue chair who, just “like that”, stated something unimaginable to a great number of people. Done deal; he harvested all the points he could’ve.
Of course, it wasn’t all that long a silence. Try setting a dam against the torrent of teenage curiosity.

- Alright, so does your family know you’re a f- I mean, that you’re homosexually oriented?
- Yeah, of course they do.
- And what was their reaction to it?
- Hmm, my sister sort of grew distant, and I greatly regret that. My mother panicked, like “It’s a sickness; you should go get treated” and all the rest of that idiocy. When she realised it had zero effect on me, her final argument was: “That’ll leave you bald!”. Now that was many years ago and I, thank God, still have my hair, so it seems that mothers don’t always know best.

The whole of the room burst out in guffaws.

- But my grandmother was the hands-down winner. When I said I’m gay, she goes: “The heck is that?” Now how are you supposed to explain that stuff to an aged lady?! So we tried going roundabout, to spare her a heart attack: “Well you know, Grandma, it’s when a man likes another man, you know, like that...” and she goes: “Oh, I know that! We called those folks sleepwalkers!” We all nearly dropped dead laughing; hey: “sleepwalkers”! But what can you say…

Everyone was laughing so hard; some of us were even tearing up. Really, what an old lady!

- And have you always known or…?
- Yeah, I’ve always known. I mean look, I like to see a good looking woman; a woman with good legs, with good posture, and typically everyone enjoys the sight of a beautiful woman, right? But I was always aware of my attraction to men. Truth be told, it freaked me out for a fair while. My best friend even pretended to be my girlfriend for some time; I think that was back in high school.

I’m not sure why I remembered Ryan tonight. He’s long retired now, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t even know if he’s still contributing to Red Line’s work; we’ve lost touch over the years. But you know, meeting that HIV-positive gay man remains one of my fondest memories, and recalling that smiling voice never fails to draw out a smile of my own.

Wet walls

I hate the springtime rain.
It lacquers everything in a shivering overcoat of mind-boggling bleariness. For all the stereotypes of a joyful awakening, the rains of spring bring in the absence of everything - colour, life, rage, lust or insanity - everything is flushed away into the more-or-less clogged and equally malodorous drains.

I hate it, blazingly, with all the blackness of a long-abandoned well, with a vicious vehemence opposed to the usual brightness I welcome the warmer seasons with. As far as the palette of my feelings goes, I don't know what gray is - I never have - and to have it consistently coating all my visible world, leaking into every crack and pore and slithering round the edges of earshot is downright maddening.

I hate the springtime rain, for it drowns me in foggy and fatigued drowsiness. My veins run coarse with silent storms; a mind too damp and a body too limp to conceive them and birth them into the world are a confinement more constrictive than any creaking crate or casket. To feel the shadow of involuntary sleep looming over me in the midst of day is a nightmare of an entirely unbearable kind.

I hate the springtime rain because it drenches me in pain - a dull claw at the back of my brain, scratching along cramped muscles and a pulsating head which radiates heat. The space in my skull seems insufficient, and so the eyes water and bulge menacingly out, or otherwise contract and sting a protest against anything brighter than a desk lamp's bulb.

I hate the springtime rain because it never shuts up. Like a senile drunkard, it rambles incoherently in a self-important monotone, spewing forth a torrent of trivialities. Its hurried murmur in voices of lead and ash and heat-dried concrete is a static background noise, drowning out any attempt at a melody. It only amplifies the dreariness which so gleefully reminds me that winter is, still, right beyond the doorstep.

Glimpsing a ghost

This ritual never really took effect before 3 am.

Before 3 am, the street still struggled, spitefully, to remain awake; but at that hollow hour, the old terrace would become a wayshrine.  No statue of deity would overshadow our traverses, no marble floor would ground our footsteps.

This particular gateway is a concrete cloister, with the exposed brickwork of the southern wall giving some feeble semblance of warmth against the floor tiles whose gradient slips unevenly between tones of decomposing autumn leaves, dried out sawdust and feline vomit. It is closed off by a rather lifelessly colored set of iron bars which seem to have once been violet, now thoroughly rusted and occasionally splattered with pigeon feces. Only recently had their visits begun to thin out.

The realm beyond this unromantic borderline is one we enjoyed observing after utterly exhausting one another. With an emergency dark chocolate supply and always different background music, we'd sit leaning against opposite walls, knees touching; he'd light a cigarette and say:

"Honest to God, you're completely insane."

If people knew how crazy you really are, how many do you think would ever speak to you? If mirrors had voices, asylums would become refuges for the sane.

At 3 am the street is silent, and only the sky is allowed to speak. The deepest sort of silence is a tapestry of sounds, and in taking them away we are doomed to deafness.

(a fragment from July 2015)

A rainscape

The evening was pale. Every shred of the waning sunlight seemed to have forgotten about its kin and hung wearily in the western sky. The orange was dimmed and the reds were musky, blending with the gray tentacles of the creeping mist into a tattered shroud. This tapestry of former light enveloped the houses and settled into the street with a barely audible sigh.

The rain came down, heavy and merciless, drumming on the rooftops with all the authority of a military march; assaulting windows with a thick, lead-hued curtain of watery bullets which thundered against the shuddering glass frames like so many furious voices against an eardrum.

Out in the streets, the drowning dust of day sloshed about in desperation while a sleepy wind slithered along the lacquered concrete, mumbling into its own transparent tail. A single anaemic bulb flickered through the grumbling downpour while a steady stream of glistening torrents whispered in the yellow and brownish crowns of the trees overhead.

The houses were dark and wistful figures under a darkened, wistful sky.

(An in-class writing exercise: descriptive paragraph - weather or a location)