Mr. DeMille, Brad, and His KS Closeup

Portrait of a man, coming home

Mom was drunk the night she threw me out for being gay.

She was drunk the night I came home too. No surprise. She lived drunk, wanna know the truth. When she threw that boiling stew at me when I was 17?

Part of me told myself not to get mad cause she’d be sorry in the morning. She loves me, you know? I never doubted that even when she dint act like it.

I was really sick the night I came home. Is came home even the right thing to say? I have no idea. All I knew then is the goblins were on my ass. I figured I had a year or two left to live, at the most.

Did I tell you about the time Mom came to the City dressed all nice, and Jim and me and Lenny took her to see the Christmas show at Radio City? I think she was proud of me then, or as proud as she could manage. Jim and Lenny dressed in sharp suits, and I was lookin pretty good too, not to boast.

We ate at a fancy restaurant midtown and the waiter treated us like royalty. I insisted on pickin up the whole check, even though it was over 400 bucks. Made sure I paid in cash so she could see how much it was. I did that to impress her, and I ain’t sorry.

I ain’t sorry that her being a drunk made me mad neither. I dint do anything to deserve the shit she put me through. I love my mom, but I don’t like her very much. Pretty ironic I tried to hide my face from her the night I came home, just like the night I left.

Only this time, it wasn’t cause Keith had turned my face into hamburger.

Iset my bag down and tugged my scarf high up around my jawline before I knocked on the door. I could tell Mom was home, cuz the TV was flickerin behind sheer curtains, light shinin through slits like old panty hose runs. Nuthin much had changed. Dirty snow covered the porch, and the vinyl siding was filthy.

“It’s open!” she yelled, louder than she needed to.

I knocked again, because if Lenny ever taught me anything, it was always be ready for your closeup, Mr. DeMille. No way was I gonna miss my big entrance.

“Jesus Fucking Christ, I’m coming already. This better be good!”

My stomach got sour when I heard that. More sour. I was already havin trouble eating. I sucked in a deep breath and held it as the door opened.

“Brad?”

I nodded, tuggin up my scarf again.

“Brad! Baby! Get in here and give your mom a hug!”

Of course I did. Why else had I come? She grabbed me and held on tight, kissin my cheeks and smoothin my hair and not even really talkin except to make noises I wasn’t sure were real words except they were the right length.

Her beer and perfume smell stirred up good and bad memories both. She threw out her arms and kinda let me know I was supposed to grab her and … what? Pick her up and swing her around?

No way.

I mean, I would of. I had before. I’m way taller than she is. But I’d lost a lotta weight, and I felt dizzy and weak from getting out of the cab and not being able to sit and rest.

I collapsed on the couch and tried to get my breath. My joints ached, especially my hips. My skin was sensitive, like it dint exactly hurt but it was too loud and crawly. My stomach was … not good.

Her eyes were full of questions.“Brad, what’s wrong, baby? Take off your coat.”

“I’m fine. Just a little cold still. Lemme warm up.”

I dint want to take off my coat, cuz I dint wanna take off my scarf.

“Let me turn up the thermostat and get you sumthin. Hot toddy sound good? I got a little Dewars left.”

“Hot sounds great. You go ahead … But can you just put my honey and lemon in some tea?”

When she disappeared into the kitchen and started bangin around, I decided not to put it off any longer. I stood up, unbuttoned my Navy pea jacket, threw it on a hook, and draped my scarf over it.

I was just sittin back down and crossing my legs all stylish when Mom came in the room with a tray. Fancy! She let me take my mug first, which smelled all lemony. Bitter scotch steamed out of hers.

“Brad, honey. You need to go wash your face? You looked like you smudged it somewhere. What’s that under your …”

I set my tea down on the end table, and reached for her mug too, putting it down right by mine. “No, Mom. My face isn’t dirty.”

I craned my neck and let the lamp shine under my jawline. “That’s a KS lesion. Kaposi’s Sarcoma. It’s one of the first symptoms of AIDS. You should see my back.”

How’s that for a closeup, Mr. DeMille? I wondered if I was being cruel on purpose.

Mom made some weird noises, then her fancy serving platter hit the floor. It dint break. It was just painted plastic.

I’ll give her this much. She dint freak out. Her eyes got huge, and her hand clapped over her mouth, like in old movies. Then she reached for me and pulled me in and rocked me, which is the last thing I expected and made me cry.

Almost as much as her.

What the hell was Mom even thinkin? I mean, she was smart enough to call Keith and invite him over for dinner, warning him what to expect first. Like two days after I got there.

But when she plopped pot roast and mashed potatoes and white dinner rolls with cold butter down on my plate, the squishy sound almost made me heave. And that smell! I dint actually push my plate away, but I’m sure my eyes said I wanted to.

I thought about how Jim woulda made me matzo ball soup and lemon curd. And not too much at a time. He knows.

Keith ate in huge shovelfuls as he watched me. Real close. He got handsome. He was a cute boy but he turned into a totally handsome man. Hell, he was hot, which I was almost but not quite too sick to notice.

He lost the mullet and cut his hair real short, spiked up in front. He had that new moustache goatee thing goin that was so popular in Chelsea but I dint think most straight guys knew about it.

But, then …

We talked about nuthin for a while. Cousins. Old friends. School. Keith had a good job at the shoe factory, so he was pretty lucky. He said he might get married and have some kids. Wasn’t sure yet.

Mom started clearin the table, but when she got to my plate, which I’d only played with the food, Keith put out his hand. “Leave it. We’ll be back.”

He walked to the kitchen door and went, “Come on.”

We walked out on the patio, and when he saw me shiverin, he ran back inside and grabbed my coat off the hook. He helped me put it on and the look in his eye wasn’t pity, it was … different. Better.

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a baggy. “I been readin up,” he went. “You need to toke, dude. You need to toke so you can eat. You’re too skinny.”

The wind was too much for his lighter, so he stuck his head under my coat to make a tent. I smelled butane and Keith’s shampoo. Then I smelled the weed, and we stood there and passed that joint, back and forth like when we were kids when I only did it because it meant we would kiss.

We dint talk, not really, just made polite noise. We dint shotgun neither, because do people really do that when they’re 23?

After a while, we started laughin. Like crazy. I laughed like I hadn’t laughed since I’d been at the Grove with Luke and everything was cool and the world lasted forever and so did you.

Pretty soon he pushed me into the kitchen, made me sit down and stuck my plate in the microwave. Damn, was that shit good! I almost burned my tongue eatin it so fast.

Keith went, “Not too much at once, buddy. Save your stomach.”

He pulled my plate away, all like, “Eat some more later, OK?” He took my arm and had me walk to the front door with him. He pulled that baggy out of his pocket and stuffed it into mine. “I’m on third shift, gotta get ready for work.”

Then he shocked me.

He took my face in his hands and he kissed the top of my head. “Get better, cousin. Lemme know as soon as you run low. That’s primo Quebec shit, man. Plenty more where it came from.”

He headed down the walk and got into his old Camaro, real slow. As he backed outta the drive, he rolled the window down and hollered, “I’ll be back!”

What you just read actually happened.

I’m telling Brad’s story because I am probably the only person left in the universe who knows it.

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← Click below to read earlier chapters about Keith, 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].