Our first three numbers I hoped were letter-perfect,
although I noticed we seemed not to be in sync with the baton.
Distance, I assumed. And the reverberation from the balconies was
unsettling. We were like little mice in the mouth of a whale,
fearful of being swallowed by the audience and the hall and the
lights and the high arch of the curtain. The applause was
thunderous, with some
bravos
and here and there a
Woohoo
. Then, silence . . . total silence. Not even the
proverbial cough or throat clearing. Jasper and I stepped forward
standing before our Cree warrior back-up group waiting for Tim’s
downbeat to start the number.
Strange. I had never really heard the work before
now. The hall enlivened the wonderful melody that my fellow
Sparrows warbled, the basses on point today with their driving
Gu-ma Gu-ma to-ba-fo-na
and the tenors with their sweet
A-fa-lit-ta do-me-zu-na
floating above it. Then, Jasper
entered, his voice the best I had ever heard it. I was so entranced
by the doings that I became quite lost. In fact, I nearly missed my
entrance — a quarter beat late, which received a raised eyebrow
from the baton. However, soon Jasper and I were swimming in a land
of lilting dance in honor of the fallen
danseur
.
Mo-shu-fan-to Ko-ler-ran-tu-Mas-hu-fi-na
Mashu-mashu
, with the basses
Guma-guma
beneath us. The
dance song became wild, and the full chorus shouted their call to
the great Father —
Mish sha Shona, Mish sha Shona,
and then
lapsed into Latin,
Gloria in excelsis, Mish sha Shona
. It
was glorious. It grew, the crescendo leading up to my great moment,
but as it approached, I heard another sound, and so did Jasper.
Oh, please God, I thought. Not here, in front of
three thousand fairies.
The music accelerated and the gas dropped. I was
approaching the moment like a freight train off its tracks. I
couldn’t concentrate. The baton was poised to cue me in. I gasped,
took my launching breath, and then clenched my ass checks with a
mighty snap and out came . . . the most glorious note of my career.
It soared to the top tier. It touched heaven itself, lingering —
hovering. It echoed, and then burst into a firework explosion in
reverberation. Then another salvo as the solo arched and swayed
from ear to ear, my lips trembling and my vibrato calling from my
bowels to save the world, if not my dignity on this the biggest
stage of my life. Then, the chorus, like a wave beating on a jetty,
inundated first me and then the audience as we clinched the
finale.
If I live to be fifty, I shall never forget the
sound of those lucky people who heard me that day. I remember that
I didn’t bow, but nodded, fearing that the ocean stopped up inside
me would erupt if I so much as bent at the waist. We turned and
marched into the wings. The director beamed. Tim bobbed his head
with a satisfied grin. I felt the back pats of my fellow Sparrows
as we gave up the stage to the Baton Rouge Lesbian Choir.
“That was remarkable,” Jasper said.
“You were great yourself,” I said, and then realized
it was the first time I had ever complimented the man.
“Party time,” Padgett announced.
I turned to Jasper.
“Thanks,” I said. “I need the latrine. Could you ask
Russ to take me back to the hotel . . . and to Matt?”
“Sure,” he said.
Suddenly, I had only one person on my mind now.
Russ didn’t come in. He just gave me his room key
and led me to the dark room. Matt was on top of a pile of blankets.
The room stank — not the same as our room, but salty, if that can
be said to be a stink. Matt coughed, a wheezy full phlegm cough. I
turned on the lights. It was still daytime, but the drapes were
drawn. I tripped over shoes. In fact, the place was a pigpen. I
scarcely could believe that there were gay men residing here —
clothing strewn everywhere and I didn’t even want to think about
the bathroom.
“Pumpkin.”
Matt was awake, but his voice was hoarse. How he
knew it was me, I couldn’t tell, still I had forgiven him for his
lie of omission, even though he still denied it was such. He sat up
as I approached. He looked like hell, his black hair matted across
his sweaty brow.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You were none to good
last time I saw you. Some case of the shits.”
“I’m fine now. But you?”
“Just a damn bad cold.” He then must have noticed my
white shirt. “Shit, I missed it didn’t I?”
“You’ll catch the recording.”
“Damn.”
I went to him. Then I noticed he was hot as hell and
wet. In fact, the blankets were soaked.
“Matt, you’re sweating like a race horse.”
I pulled the blankets back. The sheets were
drenched.
“Maybe you need a doctor,” I said.
“No doctor, Pumpkin. It’s just the mountain
sickness. It’s not even catching.”
“No?” I asked. “Well we’re a fine pair. We’re the
best damn couple in the state and here we sit, Mr. Soaked and Mrs.
Shitz.”
I felt his head. It was hot, but I wouldn’t say it
was boiling hot.
“You’re not staying here. Back to our room, so I can
take care of you. If you won’t see a doctor, you just need to
settle for me.”
“Nurse Ratchet,” he said, giggling.
I hugged him.
Salty.
“I’ll Nurse Ratchet you. Have you been taking
aspirin or something?”
He coughed — really hacked. He never answered
me.
“Come.”
I helped him up. It was the shaken leading the
shook.
“I’ll get you some
Nyquil
.”
“Drug me, will ya?”
“It’ll conk you out. Aspirin. Cold compresses and .
. .”
“Kisses.”
“We’ll see.”
“I won’t go then if you don’t fulfill the whole
prescription.”
I gathered him into my arms, and then kissed
him.
“Can I have two of those every hour?” he asked.
“We’ll see. Watch your step. This place is a shit
house. I’ve never known Russ to be so untidy.”
Then I recalled that . . . Russ had changed.
The festival was over, the last vestiges of choral
singing reaching the zenith. The closing ceremonies were a last
ditch effort to keep the spirit of singing alive until the next
GALA gathering in four years down in Tampa. Matt managed to attend
the final shindig, although he dozed off during the unison caroling
of Bernstein’s
Somewhere.
There were parties deep into the
night, but I chose to sit quietly with Matt and watch the Fourth of
July fireworks from our window. Governor Romer had gathered on the
dry pitch banks of the Platte and thanked the gay community for
having chosen the fair city of Denver for their festival. He
praised the courage of our leadership and stirred every pink and
lavender soul there by assuring that the evil Proposition 2 would
never take hold in the great State of Colorado. (Of course, neither
his good wishes nor our fond hopes could stand up against the Bible
thumping rutabagas of Colorado Springs and Pueblo. It would take a
court to set the constitution back on its heels and recall the
public to the good sense that it’s
In the Courts do we
Trust).
It was over and it had been everything that I had
hoped for and nothing that I expected. Matt’s fever came and went
and I counted the minutes for us get airborne again and return to
sea level. At least out of these mountains my bowels would moderate
and his wheezing would abate. As for that other issue — Luis’
demise and the shadow of another germ, I tried to put it behind me.
Matt had not really lied to me, I reasoned. I had never encouraged
him to speak about Luis since that evening at
The Cavern.
I
had sympathy for the little Spanish drag queen who was pummeled by
hecklers and expired in a back alleyway, which, as I learned,
was
the truth. However, it was his compromised immune system
that failed him in the short run. They were saying in all the New
York buzz-rags that no one ever dies of AIDS. It’s the ravages of
other stuff — canary something and old age bruises and sheep rash
that does you in. I usually skipped the details, but now . . . now
perhaps I’d read a little deeper.
I was encouraged on the day we departed. Matt seemed
to rally, his fever abating and he even insisted on carrying his
own baggage. I wouldn’t let him, but he fought me. Then, on the
plane he conked out, his wheezing and coughing aggravated by . . .
well, I chalked it up to the altitude. I mean, altitude gave him
this, and flying higher than the mountains certainly wouldn’t help.
The outbound flight was more subdued than the raucous
Colorado
or bust
flight. Padgett sat quietly beside Todd, I guess each
deciding whether they should kiss and make up and in the process
they stayed mum — a record for both. Russ and Tim held hands, while
the three Rons engaged Brian, the Librarian, analyzing the merits
of the various GALA participants from Vancouver to Key West. I
tried to sleep, but it wouldn’t come. I just wanted to land, catch
our ride back across New Jersey to the shore. I was sure that once
Matt was in his own surroundings, he would rally. A few days more
would do the trick. I had to be back at work, but I was positive
that Axum Labs would extend Matt’s vacation by a few days.
There are moments of serenity and anxiety in our
lives. Mary, Mary, its quite the notion that my life was cut and
squared away like my linen closet. However, more than my bowels
were acting up now. A deep-set anxiety grew in the pit of my
stomach and a sinking feeling craved my heart. It was like what
Matt said on the mountain.
It’s like I have a blackness in the
soul.
I had never felt so empty and full at the same time. I
wanted to cry for joy and sadness. My mind must have being going,
or so I thought. Love’s a bitch. Here I was higher than a mile now,
safe in the hold of a metal tube catapulting through space, but
feeling like I did near that ledge — on the pinnacle, with the
angels screaming at me —
Jump. Jump!
The only thing that
went through my head was —
Gu-ma Gu-ma to-ba-fo-na, mish sha
Shona. Mish sha shona.
The angels were not letting me off easy.
They wouldn’t stop pestering me until I let go and dove off the
edge.
Gloria in excelsis, Shona.
I called Mr. & Mrs. Kieler as the ambulance
arrived.
“Meet me at the Hospital,” I squawked as I watched
them lift Matt onto the gurney.
He hadn’t done so well after the flight and the trip
home. In fact, he was having more and more difficulty breathing.
Sea level did not work the miracle that I fully expected. I
panicked. He wouldn’t see a doctor, but he was choking and I didn’t
know what to do, so I dialed 9-1-1 and paced. I was beyond
anxious.
“Matt,” I stammered. “They’re coming.”
“Mama?”
That’s when I realized that we’d been living in a
vacuum and the Kielers hadn’t a notion that their son was ill.
Yikes.
I had to be the one to summon them. What would they
think? They’ll blame me and my fucking trip to the mountains. Matt
didn’t warble. There was no need for him to trek out to the
Proposition 2 state to catch the first craggy bug that crawled out
from some swampy bottom.
“No, Matt. The paramedics are coming.”
“No.”
“You need help,” I said. “They’ll give you . . .
air. And I’ll call your parents just as soon as the . . .”
The paramedics were here, so I dialed the Kielers.
They were shocked, but somehow, not. Odd?
Thank God you’re with
him, Martin
, Louise said, which surprised me. There was no
admonition. Just thanks.
“Meet me at the hospital,” I squawked.
The paramedics were already working on Matt — oxygen
mask, blood pressure and a heart monitor. The police were there
also, a tall dude who surveyed the place, and then me.
“You are?” he asked.
“I’m his room mate.”
The cop raised an eyebrow, and then made a note.
“How long’s he been like this?”
“We just came in from Colorado. A vacation.”
“We?”
“Yes, and he caught a cold there.”
“Didn’t he see a doctor there? Before he traveled
back here?”
“No,” I said.
The tone was so accusative that I thought I’d be
arrested for malfeasance. I was ready for fingerprinting, for
taking a suspicious vacation to a secret
hideaway
and
returning under curious and criminal conditions.
“Is this his first episode?” asked a paramedic.
She was softer in her interrogation as if she was
actually concerned.
“As far as I know.”
“As far as you know?” the cop asked. He wrote a
note.
The gurney was loaded and in full flight now.
“Pumpkin,” Matt uttered beneath the mask.
“I’m coming.”
“He’s in good hands,” the cop said.
“I’m riding with him,” I declared.
“Not allowed.”
Suddenly, I was alone. No Matt, no paramedics, no
Sergeant Friday giving me the third degree. Thoroughly and utterly
alone.
The East Shore General Hospital was easy to find.
Viv had been there a few times for various ailments. However, my
patience was wearing thin as I sped there, managing to honk at
every slow cretin on the road. I garnered several well-deserved
finger flips, but I didn’t give a shit. I just wanted to get to the
emergency room and take my place beside my cowboy.
As it turned out, Matt bypassed the emergency room.
Not bypassed, but just a fly through. Nevertheless, when I made
inquiries at the front desk, I was told that he was admitted and on
the fourth floor, but I couldn’t go up yet.
“But he needs me,” I said.
This was received with skeptical eyes that said
If you’re not his doctor, he doesn’t need you.
On some level
I understood that, so I paced, waiting for the Kielers, who I
expected at any time. However, they didn’t come. Not fast enough. I
paced and paced, and finally I asked.