Brad, Coffins, and Fighting to Live

Portrait of a man, choosing

I was never much of a bottom.

But with Greg, that’s all I wanted. I did all the work. Lubed him up and climbed on top. Sank down slow but not slow enough to stop the burn.

I clenched my teeth against the pain and closed my eyes, feelin … right.

Like I was doin exactly what I needed. I let his big hands cup and squeeze my cheeks just under my hips. I let him pound in and out while I rocked and moaned and cried.

After, I rolled off him, closed my eyes and prayed.

When he asked me why I dint cum, what he could do to help, I let one finger brush against the bristles on his cheek. I whispered my answer. “It’s OK. I don’t need to. Thank you.”

“Hurry up, we’re gonna be late!”

Jim was standin outside the gay Center, wavin at me, all hoppin from one foot to the other like he couldn’t take it if we dint get to Act Up before it got crowded. Like we dint always just lean against the back wall and listen, no matter how early we got there.

He threw an arm around me and we kinda walked bumpin against each other, past St. Vincent’s toward Washington Square, breathin in traffic smoke and restaurant smells all mixed up together.

I looked over my shoulder, starin at the hospital, like if I stared hard enough, Luke would still be layin in a bed with a tube stuck down his throat to breathe for him.

I thought about how I rushed over there that morning they called me at Jim’s. About how all three of us grabbed clothes and ran down to the street to jump in a cab, which it was real easy cuz the sun was just comin up and 8th Avenue wasn’t crowded yet.

I thought about how Luke dint die that day, even though he looked like he would. The way his ribs stuck out. The way his face was swollen up. The way he smelled.

Walkin with Jim to Act Up, passin Washingon Square about 9 months later, I tried to hold onto a three-year-old memory. Of the day I first met Luke right there in the park. His cheeks glowed red from the wind, his hair shined just as red in the sun. His smile shined brighter than any of it.

And now he was gone. Forever.

“What the fuck are they shoutin about?” I was holdin up the back wall with Jim like always, Herman and Greg and some of our other friends kinda all clustered up together.

Herman raised a fist in the air a few times and yelled in Spanish. Jim listened hard, his head snappin back and forth between Bill Dobbs and Ann Northrup up front.

“I dunno,” went Greg when nobody else answered my question. “Bill’s pissed about something. Like usual. Wish he’d shut up and let Ann talk.”

Bill’s funny.

Skinny little guy. Looks totally boring. Kinda guy if he ever walked into Uncle Charlie’s, the bouncer would probably explain really nice how he musta walked into the wrong kinda bar. Then push him out the door.

But when Bill starts to talk!

Up in front of an Act Up meeting, givin a speech or whatever, he makes your skin all tingly and your heart beat like it’s gonna jump up outta your chest and into the sky.

He makes you wanna run into the street chantin!

Only people get mad at him a lot. Herman rolled his eyes that night when Bill talked, and you could see Ann’s lips get really really thin and white. Michael-angelo cheered him on … mostly.

Then Mike got up and talked, kinda quiet and thoughtful. Which made Bill mad! And Ann was laughin and Herman was cheerin and Jim was all like “what the hell?” and I just wanted know how to vote.

Cuz you have to vote at the meetings, right? That’s why they have em.

So Bill talked some more and Ann talked some more, then everybody voted, and it seemed pretty unanimous for Bill, only Ann sat there smilin like she won and later she and Mike hugged so I figured they pulled a fast one but what do I know, a kid from Castleton without a high school diploma?

Later, at the Waverly, chewin on a chili dog, Herman went, “It’s hard to love a saint, but with Bill you have to try.” He was explainin why people cheered all the time for Bill but still got so pissed at him sometimes.

Jim went, “He’s right most of the time, but he needs to leave the media committee alone. Mike and Ann are pros. I wish Bill would stick to being a lawyer.”

I could see Greg gettin ready to argue, so I changed the subject. “Is it really true he’s had HIV since 1985?”

Jim nodded, and Greg went, “Probably a lot longer than that. That’s just when he got tested.”

Boy, did I pick the right subject.

Greg picked up a fork and started wavin it around. “People like Bill and Larry Kramer … just seeing them up there, still alive and fighting? It’s like… look, I din’t test positive til 90, right? Only three years ago! So if those two assholes can stay alive all that time, so can I. Know what I mean? Until Staley and his CDC people finally get us some drugs that fucking work.”

Herman nodded and pulled Greg in for a quick hug. His answer came out quiet as hell. “Bill might be a son of a bitch sometimes, but whatever he’s doin to stay alive, I want some of that.”

Jim looked embarrassed, like he dint know what to say, like they knew he dint have the virus, which meant maybe he should just not talk.

I started to talk, but trust me, nobody wanted to hear what I had to say. So I snapped my mouth close before I could ask Herman WHY he wanted to stay alive.

I dint have my plan all together yet, but I’d already started thinkin about it.

And sometimes? When things in my head got really really bad? Thinkin about it calmed me down and let me breathe.

We crowded onto school buses the next Saturday morning, headed out to piss people off on Long Island somewhere, which except for other Act Up stuff, I’d only ever been to with Luke to get the ferry to Fire Island.

I dint wanna think about that, how Fire Island would always remind me of Luke, So I closed my eyes and tried to go to sleep, Jim already layin his head on my shoulder half snorin, the bus smellin like breakfast sandwiches and hair product.

Herman and his new boyfriend was in the seat up ahead, and Greg was sittin across the aisle with some other guy from our back wall crew. I sorta listened for a while, them talkin about the die-in and the coffins.

And the blood.

But I wasn’t too interested cuz I’d done it all before and figured I pretty much knew what to do. I checked to make sure my card was still in my pocket. The one the media committee handed out to tell you what to say to reporters. Or to the cops if you got arrested.

When you got arrested.

Long Island cops were the worst. Especially when we had blood and coffins and all that shit, not like the cops in the City who acted pretty much bored with us. Usually.

I memorized the card, cuz I ain’t as dumb as people figure, then I fell asleep, Jim leanin into me, me leanin into him, Herman’s Cuban accent buzzin into my ear, the bus all quiet and calm on the Long Island Expressway.

I dreamed of Luke. Kissin him on the beach, layin with him in the sun. Jumpin into huge waves. Tellin each other stories about gettin old and rich together.

Only then I was in the hospital and my dream was a real memory. Getting there too late. Walkin into the room to touch his hand and it was still warm almost like he was still alive. Wantin to kiss his cheek but being too afraid because he was dead and who kisses a dead person even though his eyes are open?

Sittin in a hospital room all by myself with my dead boyfriend, like the worst nightmare ever, except it wasn’t a nightmare because it really happened and I can’t get it outta my head no matter how hard I try.

I jerked awake and looked around the bus, just watchin everybody, feeling everybody tryin so hard to stay alive and keep their friends alive.

I buried my head in my hands and tried to make the world disappear.

What you just read is true.

I’m telling Brad’s story because I am probably the only person left in the universe who knows it. So many stories of people who didn’t survive AIDS are gone forever. I don’t want Brad’s to disappear.

I am the “Jim” in this chapter, and Herman was my friend before he died.

Next chapter →

← Click below to read earlier chapters about Luke, Brad, and how Brad got kicked out of the house when he was only 17.

James Finn is a long-time HIV/LGBTQ activist, an alumnus of Act Up NYC, an essayist occasionally published in queer news outlets, and an “agented” novelist. Send questions, comments, and story ideas to [email protected].