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Part 1

  Even now, were you to ask, he would probably say
That the worst day was June 8, which was the first day
After the Fear began. It was Saturday, cool, bright,
A gorgeous Sierra late spring afternoon. Light
Made the single window in his tiny cabin gleam,
Though it didn't shine inside, in the warm thick beams
That woke him in the winter; the spring sun took
A higher path, over the roof.

                                               He didn't look
Out the window when he woke, didn't want to see
A nice day. He only wanted the Fear to be
Gone. The rest, all the rest -- nice days, good weather, sun --
Didn't matter. The Fear was the all, and the one,
Already The Fear. It wasn't gone. It had a name.
He couldn't go back to sleep.

                                                 He played a game
On his computer, hoping to forget it, trying
To, until he began to feel his life flying
Away, his precious, irretrievable, sweet
Life. He made a simple lunch that he couldn't eat,
Not even a bite. He drank a beer. His mail box
Was empty. People were jogging, or taking walks,
Enjoying the day. Get your rollerblades, he thought,
Tool around the bike trails for an hour; you've got
To get out, blow cobwebs out of your mind.

                                                                      He made it
As far as suiting up before he had his fit,
Half on the mattress, half on the carpet, kicking his
Legs at nothing, crying in his pillow, one fist
Beating the mattress, one fist beating the cinder-block
Wall, his stomach and waist humping the air, his cock
Half-mast and tingling, screaming loud into his pillow,
"No! Get out of my body! Get out! Get out! No!"

 The fit is why he calls it the worst day. For that one
Hour he came as close as he has ever come
To madness; and the madness was natural and good,
Something he could feel again, something that he would.

 But the worst day was in southern Minnesota,
In late July, long after the Fear became a
Groundless phantom, exposed by a negative test.
July 21st. The weather was on its best
Behavior, blue sky over vast green land (a day when
The green bloom around you crowds in on your thoughts, when
Part of you thinks of dying, not being there again,
Bequeathing life, of feeding plants, not eating them,
While all the other parts of you dance and smile and sing).
The highway was chewed up, as if asphalt-eating
Locusts had passed through in swarm; the farms alongside
The highway were thick with green cornstalks, in mile-long, wide,
Tall swaths, a ladybug's view of grass. There was no fear
That day. He felt good. He looked forward to a beer,
Maybe a few, with his lady friend in Madison,
Three hours away. Milwaukee hung about an
Inch or so above Madison on his road map.

                                                                        In
July 1991, outside Wisconsin:
Of course he thought of Jeffrey Dahmer.

                                                               Dahmer had been
Arrested for mass murder the week before, in
His apartment, where he had kept parts of his victims.
Arrested for mass murder, cannibalism,
Necrophilia -- he drugged them, killed them, fucked them, and
Ate them. And what no one could really understand
Was how Dahmer could look so normal. A non-descript,
Blandly handsome face; blond; average build; a bit
Of stubbly beard -- no Hannibal Lecter, no Norman
Bates, no Charles Manson this; no savagery, passion,
Oily charm, no insanity palpable from
Across the room. Jeffrey Dahmer was both the sum
Of all our fears, and a man too boring to notice,
One of those weird freaks that make B-movies make sense,
That hint at a world where people are replaced by pods,
Mesmerized into zombies. Jeffrey Dahmer awed
Us with the subtlety of the evil inside us;
Make him the tool of some other intelligence,
We asked. Please don't let him be human.

                                                                   Idle minds
Are the soil of intuition. They make the kinds
Of leaps that elude us when we wrestle with questions.
Stuff your brain full with a problem; no solutions
Appear in your noisy and swirling head. They will come
Later, when you're shaving, or on the bus home from
Work, come out of nowhere. But the process is often
Cruel. Sometimes the solution is the moment when
You realize your mind's been working on the problem:
You learn, abruptly, that even some subsystem
Of your brain knew your spouse was cheating on you, while you
Were too stupid to see it.

                                           He was driving through
Minnesota, thinking of Dahmer, and of things not
Human that want us dead. The highway was a blot
On the landscape, all chewed up like that, as unpleasant
to look at as to drive on. Around him verdant
Life was tamed in neat rows and fields; he could just begin
To feel it, angry, hungry, slowly pressing in
On the works of man. Who better to hate us humans
Than Mother Earth, lacquered with asphalt, choked with cans?
Maybe we have kicked the womb once too often. Maybe
Now she wants us out. She who made the lamb made thee,
And made the lion and the shark besides; a Dahmer
Would not be hard for her, not after a Hitler.
But Dahmer killed just a few; Hitler, just six million.
Not enough.

                      Where do diseases come from? Does one
Just appear one day, in the body of a monkey
Somewhere in Africa? A disease so lucky
As to survive and spread, even though it cannot fly
Through the air or puncture skin, that only gets in by
The soft wet doors that we open in order to breed?
Maybe we kicked the womb once too often, and need
To stop; maybe Mother Earth is kicking back. Maybe
HIV is natural, and necessary,
He thought.

                     But he didn't think about it for long.
It was a crisp, gorgeous day, there was a good song
On the radio, and only three hours left to
Madison, to see a lovely lady he knew.

 That was the worst, that one moment's small intuition;
The worst because he thought it, with no suspicion
Of how completely gone a person would have to be
To call AIDS natural, much less necessary.
At least he kicked and screamed, the first time the madness bit
Him; this time, he didn't even try to fight it.

*

 This is not a story about AIDS, but about fear.
I am not some plague-chained Marley's Ghost, return'd here
To haunt you with tales of poignant death slow in coming.
I don't have AIDS. I don't have AIDS. And how I will sing
That song every day until I die of something else,
How brutally cruelly I will sing, how my pulse
Will race with joy -- you have no idea, good reader. Unless
You are a Marley's Ghost. (If you are, I'll caress
You fondly when we meet, and I'll sit quietly, and let
You hate me for winning this particular bet,
And outliving you.)

                               This is a story about fear,
About running headlong into it, and learning how near
I am and always will be to something else that is
Not me. This is my story, "He" is I and "his"
Is really mine, and all the other names are changed from
Real ones. I mention this since it's the conclusion.
I can say I knew Fear, and Despair, and can also
Claim I tasted Insanity; I say I know
What they are, and that I managed to drive them out
Of my soul. But I can't think about it without
Pretending that it was someone else, desperately
Pushing it away from Me, making up a He.
So it could be that I have triumphed over nothing,
That even as I viciously and recklessly sing,
The Fear bides its time and waits: not that one fear, but all
The rest.

*

               Tony had moved to South Lake Tahoe in the fall
Of 1990, to be a ski bum, and to
Finish his first novel. Tahoe because he knew
No one there, had never seen it, because the cute
Woman at the Chamber of Commerce didn't shoot
Down the idea by telling him that employment,
Housing, or both were hard to find. (An accident,
He suspects. Had he called another day, another
Hour, another receptionist, he was sure
He would have chosen Vail, Aspen, Alta, Sun Valley
Instead of Tahoe.) Tony didn't much care. He
Wanted the West, a mountain, a job for food, Friday
Nights drinking and stoning in small cabins, a day
Or two each week to write: a season out of the race.

 What he got instead was an interesting place,
A quirky town full of oddities to symbolize
Itself, bursting with them, like a story that tries
Over and over to find an introductory
Metaphor, a good simple image to carry
Through to the end, but which keeps bogging down at the start:

 "Part of Lake Tahoe is in California, part
Is in Nevada (the elbow in their shared border
Lies on the bottom, two thousand feet down, lower
Than Reno's elevation above sea level.) They
Are different places -- more properly, different ways
Of living. In California you can smoke fine weed
On a street corner; in Nevada, just a seed
Will get you thrown in jail. In Nevada you can whore,
Gamble, and drink all night long in casinos, bars, or
Cathouses; but drive west even a little tipsy
And the Hanging Judge of El Dorado County
(Whose son was killed by a drunk driver) throws a heavy
Book indeed. One soon learns adaptability
Of vices, that what is 'bad' and 'wrong' depends solely
On where you are; and if you tire of guilty
Pleasures, if your nights seem less exciting and heady,
You can just drive a mile to where the penalty
Is stiffer, and the adrenaline they gave you will
Come back."

                         Or:

                                   "Lake Tahoe, the place, is quiet, still,
And without a doubt is the most gorgeous place on Earth.
Which it should not be. From its wild, violent birth --
Child of magma and crashing glaciers -- one foresees
Beauty and majesty. Which it has. But the trees
And grass and sweet carpets of moss arrived one day,
With the wind. (Sit on the road above Emerald Bay,
And see the wind step lightly on the water's blue sheen,
A ghostly forlorn pas de un, courting the green
To come back.) And the green became the mountains' lover,
Enveloping them, soothing them, teaching cover
And modesty and coyness. Imagine tolling bell
Become bright waltz, Notre-Dame become Saint-Chapelle,
Van Gogh become Degas; gorgeous happened to Tahoe.

  "But in South Lake Tahoe, the town, you will find no
Fine or delicate thing. Instead, see Redneck Central,
The triumph of White Trash Urban Planning:

                                                                       'We'll
Put a gas station here, then a motel, a strip mall,
Then fast food. Couple more motels -- two stories tall,
With them balconies; say you're drinking, and you swallow
Your dip -- like when you're yelling at the kids -- you know
How you throw up? And that railing is all you got
To keep you from falling into the parking lot.
So balconies for sure. Couple bars, of course, need them...
Liquor stores, and maybe a 7-11
Or two. Anything we forgot?'

                                                 'The skiers?'

                                                                           'Aw, piss.
Okay. We'll make one of them malls look sorta Swiss.
That should do 'em.'

                                    And the casinos: while the colored
Coruscating, and omnipresent lights (unheard
Of to have so many in one square block) may appear
Joyous and lively; while the things you see and hear,
Bells and buzzers, chips and craps table shouts (win or lose),
Waitresses in minis, breast jobs, and high-heeled shoes,
Are certainly diverting; still, you can't walk past
These huge mounds of brownstone, concrete and dirty glass
In the daytime, without being struck by how goddamn
Ugly they really are, how the tourists who cram
The sidewalks each weekend seem completely unaware
Of Lake Tahoe the gorgeous place, how foul the air
Is with car exhaust. One soon learns the local's snobbish
Disdain for the Weekend Crowd, and the blindness which
Goes along with it: Those people are nothing. They live
Small lives in lesser places. The money they give
Tahoe, of course, is the only economy Lake
Tahoe has, and every tourist from whom it takes
Money is one more car or bus or plane, one more pound
Of trash that poisons water and erodes the ground;
One more measly tip to live on, in the most gorgeous
Place on Earth."

                           Or (this one, a bit less sententious):
Of all the albums -- three hundred some -- that Tony brought
With him to Tahoe, there's only one he did not
Listen to while he was living there: Neil Young's Live Rust.
He avoided it. He let it sit and gather dust,
Even though he got thoroughly sick of the other
Two hundred ninety-nine albums. He is quite sure
He was avoiding it because of "Sugar Mountain,"
The first song; because hearing it there and then
Would have been hard to bear.

                                                  Not, mind you, hearing the song's
Lyrics, their bittersweet nostalgia for childhood long
Gone. The lyrics he could enjoy. But the music tells
A different story than the words, a sad farewell
Not to innocence but to the illusion that it
Exists, to the belief that the evil will sit
Quietly behind the veneer of good and not try
To peep out, to our own ability to lie
To ourselves. It told Tony the scene in Walt Disney's
Pinocchio, where the boys eat lurid candies
On a magic mountain where they grow as thick as weeds,
Only to turn into donkeys. Wild oats are seeds
Too, after all, and they do grow, in unexpected
Places and in dangerous ways, the music said;
And Tony did not want to hear that.

                                                           Tony floated
In a social limbo in Tahoe, accepted
Provisionally by every group, but adopted
By none. The four groups: Locals, Fuck-Up or Solid;
Skibums, Young or Older.

                                             Skibums are on leave from school,
Or just taking a break, with a couple of Cool
Dudes who live this way as their profession. The group splits
At 21, drinking and casino age. It's
An obvious border. The Older have more places
To play, and you see that freedom in their faces,
Faces that look younger since they don't worry about
The house getting trashed or the beer keg running out
Or the neighbors calling the cops -- all of which happens
To the Young Skibums when they want to drink, and when
They drink, who want to drink with an unknown, cute member
Of the opposite sex. But both Young and Older
Skibums have young faces, faces untouched by worry.
The job sucks, the "blizzard" was only a flurry,
The roommate stiffed you for the rent, you can't afford new
Skiboots for your new skis ... and that's about it. True,
There are worrisome moments -- last week's one-night stand calls
Asking for you; your knee feels funny when you fall
On it; the neighbors did call the cops -- but more likely
Than not, they only break up the monotony.
No big deal.

                      The Locals' split is profound. On one side
Are the Solids. Solids are solid, in Tahoe
As in anywhere. They have jobs, kids, they go
To church, they act small parts in community playhouses,
They write New Age books, they cheat on lovers and spouses,
All of it in moderation. Solids are solids.
They live straightforward lives. They don't party with kids,
Or with anyone who doesn't call Tahoe home (who
Wants transients for friends?). They don't gamble, and you
Only see them skiing on weekends. That their jobs are
Ephemeral ones, less than "respectable," far
From "professional" -- well, that's Tahoe. In a resort
Town, there are simply more jobs that require short
Skirts than suits, more money behind gambling tables than
Behind desks.

                         Last, and least, the Fuck-Ups. No one can
Avoid the Fuck-Ups; they are everywhere, like flies on
Shit. They come from all over, new ones each day, drawn
To Tahoe's isolation (surrounded by mountains,
Recall), Tahoe's tourists (money, recall again;
Also, those tourist sex drives drunk loose), its numerous
Jobs that don't ask for résumé or reference
(And those that do -- well, you can lie), and to its beauty,
Its silent promise of rebirth with amnesty
For all the bad, mean, and stupid things you did before.

 Fuck-Ups are the ones on this side of the mirror,
Who saw something both different and better on that side,
Saw it without knowing it wasn't them, who tried
To become it without really knowing what it was,
Or what it meant. Fuck-Ups are those who think the buzz
Of adrenaline and too little sleep is the view
From the crest of the wave of success, that the new
Clothes reinvigorate the old body, that the next beer
The next toke the next dollar will cause to appear
That door through which all the clear-headed and lucky go
To reach the Good Life. They're everywhere in Tahoe.
They run the place.

                                The divisions are arbitrary,
Of course -- Skibums can be Fuck-Ups (loan them money
And you'll soon learn that), or Solids-on-hold for one
Last fling; some Solids were Skibums who came for fun
And liked the athletic, small-town life more than the din
Of the city; and more than a few Solids begin
Their Tahoe lives as Fuck-Ups, only to be saddled
With a child to feed, or bills to pay, or the cold
Reality of Give up your addiction, or die.

 Tony did not fit any group, though he did try.
Technically, he was an Older Skibum -- 3 AM
Blackjack, season pass, part-time job -- and hung with them.
The Older Skibums, however, distrusted Tony.
A college degree is one thing; a Yale degree,
And the uptight world it suggests, quite another.

 So often Tony would hang out with the Young Skibums too.
They liked his novelty, his albums, that he knew
What college would be like, and that he could give them rides
To work. But sometimes he was just too old; besides,
He was not as wholly focused as they on the quest
For beer and chicks. A fellow traveler at best.

 The Solids were less wary of him than of most; he
Was a transient, but his vocabulary
And intellect set him apart. Conversations came
Easily enough, since most of them were the same.
They asked him questions, did not listen to what he'd say.

 Fuck-Ups, however, will take whatever comes their way.
Tony was careful, but not too. He came to play,
After all, and Fuck-Ups can be great fun, if you
Watch your back. In eight months he had indulged a few
Vices: Dated a stripper (How arty! How charming!
To his Ivy League friends, how quaintly alarming!),
Went to a whorehouse once (An entertaining canard.
He got a blow-job. He paid with his MasterCard.
She had even had a tattoo.), tried various drugs,
A few one-night stands, drank beers with rednecks and thugs.
He got burned once in a while, of course, but not too bad.
An arraignment here (with a dismissal; he had
Law school friends to dictate his defense over the phone),
An unpleasant scene there (with one night's stand alone,
He ended his relationship with the stripper and
Screwed his best Tahoe friend's girlfriend. Both were unplanned
Events). And none of it, after all, meant all that much.
He was on holiday. He was a writer. Such
Things are Necessary Experiences. He gained
Insight and knowledge, and if he felt or caused pain,
The pain was rarefied, pro forma, soon forgotten.
By Spring, things were good. He had written his first screenplay,
Seen the light at the end of his novel. His days
Had become easy-going bike trips along the shore,
Rented videos, barbecues, simple dates, or
Trips to San Francisco to see his old friend Bolan,
Who lived there now, and worked as a waiter. Spring was when
He felt ready, and, for the first time, eager to go
Back East and be a grown-up, though he didn't know
Just what that meant. Spring was a time of biding his time,
Enjoying the flowers and the temperate clime,
Losing some weight as he learned how to skate.

                                                                            Spring was June
7th, a gorgeous Sierra spring afternoon.
Mom had called that morning with her flight number and gate;
She was arriving in two weeks, to celebrate
Her upcoming birthday, and to see "this Lake Tahoe
Place" before he left. He had a date for a show
That evening. For now he was reading the new Sandman,
A comic book. The current storyline began
When he had arrived in Tahoe; this issue, fittingly,
Was the conclusion. And it was a good story
For a quiet day, a something wistful mixed with true,
A story where even the Devil got his due.
(He had finished The Brothers Karamazov the week
Before, and he was still mulling over the meek
Devil's line, "Even evil must do good sometimes.") He
Started thinking about the last eight months, slowly
Sorting through all the things he had seen, all the people
He had met, the few wild oats he had sown.

                                                                      For a full
Second he lingered on Kathy, the aforementioned
Former girlfriend of Sam, his closest Tahoe friend.
Kathy had turned out to be a serious mistake,
A major-league Fuck-Up with a strong taste for flake,
Booze, and guys. No one knew where she was now; no rumor
Was thought too mean. Sam had kept a sense of humor
About the whole episode. Tony thought it sorry
And sad, to see someone lose it so completely --
When Kathy was with it she could be a lot of fun.
They would go to the beach, to bars, to play backgammon.
He liked hanging with her and Sam. She knew how to play.
But that's how Fuck-Ups are. He put the thought away.

 Then a train of afterthought came on a whispered track:
Dude, man, you fucked that messed-up cokehead bitch BAREBACK.
While you were inside her box, your condoms sat in theirs;
Maybe Kathy gave you a present unawares?

 And that was all it took.

*

                                         Just what is a tragedy?
Just how do dying and dying tragically
Differ? "Everyone's death diminishes me," Walt said,
But you are more diminished if it's someone you've met,
Someone you've heard of, someone you know, someone you love.
And these deaths are sad -- but is there a threshold of
Death, beyond which the death says more than dying alone?

 Ryan White, 18 years old. Seeds of his death sown
By his hemophilia, and the donor blood it
Required, which was supplied one day by a fit,
Young, kindly gay. A tragedy.

                                                  But why? When 18-
Year-olds die every day -- drunk behind wheels, last seen
Getting into cars with tinted windows, wandering
Into crossfires, beatifically smiling
As if they were asleep with a page of bad blank verse
On the computer screen -- why was Ryan White's hearse
An epilogue, not an end? What was Ryan's tragic
Flaw? Is there such a thing, or is it artistic
License? In any Venice but Shakespeare's, would a Moor
Go mad with jealousy and kill his beloved, or
Would he have cruised the Piazza and picked up some strange?
In any world but People Magazine's, in any age
Other than ours, would anyone notice Ryan
White's demise?

                            Tony doesn't know. But he envies
Ryan White tonight. Alone in Tahoe he sees
Tony's obituary, and it is short, his dad
Wrote it, hastily. Family and friends are sad,
But the mortician is bored and no reporters came,
The Yale Alumni Magazine misspelled his name,
And there's nothing tragic at all about it. Tony,
Dead of AIDS. And life goes on, though the Dobranski
Name does not. Shit happens. He wrote a book. There's nothing
Tragic at all about it. There's nothing nothing
Nothing tragic at all.

*

                                      On Sunday Bolan called at
Just the right time.

     Sunday, under a shower that
Had long since gone cold, Tony yelled at himself, his head,
The Fear. And somehow, it worked, well enough. He read
A bit: Herzog, until it got too whiny; then all
He could stomach (not much) of a New Age book called
The Way of the Lover -- which was a guide to having
Karmically-correct sex. Head chakra controlling
Center chakra creates anxiety, power-lust,
Masturbation, the book helpfully told him. Just
What he wanted to hear.

                                         But at least he could be wry.
The Fear was going. He'd worked through it. He'd get by.

 Sunday he went to work early, for something to do.
There was some dumb paperwork, and a bunch of new
Leads from a boat show in Fresno that needed sorting.
It was dull, happy hour, half-listening
To the telemarketer's conversations as they
Trickled into the office from the beach. "This may
Be good, this recession," Mark was saying. "Land's very
Cheap. Someone's buying the trailer park near Raley's,
I heard, they're hoping to build some condos on the land."

 "I hope so," said pretty Dominique. "I can't stand
That place. All sorts of creeps live there. This one guy, few years
Back, kidnapped two girls and ... you know. No one could hear
Them; he had a soundproof room in his double-wide where
He kept them. Real sick. This other guy who lived there --
He used to work for us -- well, he's got AIDS now." Pretty
Dominique said the word melodramatically,
Lingering for a beat, not swallowing it the way
Most people do. "Joanne saw him the other day,
He came up from San Francisco. He looks all gross now,
He has to take all these medicines. She said how
Screwed up he is; with all the drugs that he's on, he's lost."
Pretty Dominique shook her head sadly, it tossed
Her long brown hair in pleasant waves.

                                                              Tony felt a rake
Of green acid in his stomach, felt his hands shake.
The chair he sat down on was at one end of a funny
Gray tunnel, inside which everything seemed to be
Made of mist, and if he touched anything it would all
Go pop and crush him.

                                      And then, thank God, Bolan called,
And the black plastic phone handle was solid to touch,
And the room looked like before. "Dude! What's up?"

                                                                                       "Not much.
I'm in Reno, with Yvette. We were thinking about
Driving up, if it's cool."

                                      "Perfect. Mom won't be out
Here 'til next week, it's perfect. This is great. I can't wait
To see you. When are you coming?"

                                                            "Wednesday ... say late
Afternoon?"

                     "Fine. I'm stoked, dude."

                                                                "Well, me too, big guy,"
Bolan said, his voice smiling, slow, a little high.
"So what's up with you?"

                                          "Way too much," Tony said, and then
Tried to explain. It made no sense out loud. Bolan
Listened quietly, and, as always, understood.

                                                                           "You
Get in these moods a lot," he finally said. "Do
You see a pattern?"

                                  "What?"

                                                   "Well, three months ago your
Last romance ends. It's going nowhere. But you're sure
Afterwards that you're doomed to be alone. You finish
The screenplay in May. It's good. Will it get published?
You don't think so. You know you're gonna fail. Anything
You dream or believe in lately, you start freaking
Out about. The love you have keeps turning into fear.
Can you tell me why?"

                                     "I don't know." It was a clear
Pattern. Bolan was right. "Cyclical paranoia,"
Tony said, "every six weeks. Shit. That's fucked up."

                                                                                   "Yeah,
It is." Bolan let him have the pause, as a kindness;
He wanted to say more, things Tony was too messed
Up to hear. "Look, I'll be there Wednesday. You'll be okay
'Til then?"

                 "I'll be fine. Well, maybe not fine, but.... Say
Hi to Yvette for me. Don't lose too much in Reno."

 "I can't. Yvette has all the money. Gotta go,
Man. Take care."

                            "Thanks. You too. See you soon, Bolan. Later."

 "Later, Tony."

                         Counting the leads, twenty-five per
Stack, the room around him now a low hum of sales calls,
He thought about what Bolan said, a Fear that falls
At regular intervals, like periods or moons.
He thought about leaving Tahoe, heading East soon.
Pretty Dominique would do the paperwork when he
Was gone. She sat in front of him, finger slowly
Curling a thick strand of her lovely, long, auburn hair.
Ridiculous that she could give him such a scare
Just saying a word.

                                 She didn't, a voice in his mind
Told him. You did it yourself. You heterodyned.

 Heterodyned. From Scientific American.
He'd bored his friends with it all month. What it means: when
You hear a harpsichord, you hear rich, distinctive bass.
Now, take an oscilloscope: you won't find a trace
Of those powerful tones. Harpsichords are tinny things,
And cannot make strong lows; you are amplifying
A sound your ear just barely hears, you and you alone.

 Heterodyned Fear. A tiny bit of fear, blown
Up to giant size, like sharp pain from just a splinter.
And then the pain goes, you forget, you don't bother
To wear gloves next time. More splinters. Then one day, a nail.
Then one day you sweat and you tremble, you turn pale,
Scream at what is not there. One day you have gone insane.
Nebuchadnezzar in the grass. Lear in the rain.
Tony in South Lake Tahoe.

                                              Bolan had shown him how
He did, how he was doing this to himself. Now
He understood what the Fear was.

                                                         But for him to try
To beat it, what wasn't enough. He needed why.

*	anchors:  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Comments

Part 2

Let us go then, you and I, while the evening is spread
Out against the sky, and wander through a world dread
And shiny: steel and paper and flesh, a smooth veneer
Over poorly cut, unsanded, splintering fear.
Or, maybe not. Whatever the artistry of this
Descent, it's not far down. The psychoanalyst
Laughs quietly against the chest of the patient in
His bed; "Anxiety attack," he says, "it's been
Done. Guys like him put my kids through law school." And
This is a point to consider. The smiling, bland
Priesthood of professional friends, their beati Jung
And Freud, filled the echoes of the sad dirges sung
At the death of the jealous, terrible God-who-takes,
Takes us when we would not go, and then one day wakes
Us to sights more terrible still. But He was Someone;
His will, however unfathomable, was done,
A decided thing, a Someone to decide; and He,
She or They, namable or not, are the only
Things we really trusted to explain it, the Big It,
The Everything.

                            For one hundred years, starlit
Skies have only held engines, burning themselves for fuel;
We have been machines, our systems for renewal
Fifteen million years old but still plagued by poor design
And entropy. One hundred years of marvels, fine
New thoughts -- but marvels are not miracles, nor are they
Tragedies; they do not create. We gave away
The inviting blank slate of a cosmos without cause
But with effect. Our wounded myths bleed through their gauze,
And biomechanics is not enough to unite
The community of Man.

                                       Thus we have lost sight
Of the ties that bound us all, if ties there ever were;
At least we lost the belief in those ties, the sure
Faith that all the others who shared our shape were like us.
I am no right-wing naïf; I know "like-me-ness"
Never encompassed enough, and inside this worthy
Goal hides the justification for too many
Crimes and terrors; I know our mental worlds too quickly
Shrink their borders from what we are to what we see,
From culture to clothes, from philosophy to dogma,
From an ideal to a fleshtone. I know the flaw
Of unity is its lack of dissent, and sometimes
I feel each voice must be heard, even if the fine
Harmonies of the songs I love become discordant
Whines. The poet was right: a single center can't
Hold.

             But we have multiple centers: they hold less still,
And a whole now only the sum of its parts will
Soon be their mere enumeration. Good Ph.D.'s,
Your cures only kill us faster; can you now please
Tell me if this life of solitary hunger, this me
Who does not know myself, save as one allowed to be
Only a One, son of two Ones in a world of Ones --
Is this all I have? Have we nothing in common?

 There is biomechanics. There is that chink inside
The wall of our blood which is so easily pried
Open by a thing not quite alive, not quite living
In the zones we like to have some One else touching.
And, when asked to be or not to be, we always have
An answer. We have AIDS-and-fear, a single salve
That heals our One-ness. All of us are scared we could die.

 Just an anxiety attack? Not when all my
Generation, and a couple of generations
Before it, have the same Fear, the same sensations
In the pits of our stomachs and in the backs of
Our brains. Neither music nor clothes nor art nor love
Has done what AIDS is doing. It's a rite of passage.
Gay straight female male color religion language
We have all been scared of AIDS.

                                                        And if you have not been,
Then You are not one of Us. The wages of sin
Is our God. We perform our rituals to placate
It: we paint our soft doorways with latex, we wait
In Its Health Departments and say fervent prayers, we
Venerate Its martyrs with quilts. It's the only
Thing that unites us, but it unites so many --
Even this is better than not having any.
Or, maybe not.

*

                         "The weight of the world," Bolan said gently,
"Is not on your shoulders, dude."

                                                     "No, it's not," Tony
Agreed wryly. "It's on my chest." Bolan laughed out loud,
And things were good; the weight was still there but the cloud
Of gloom and downer that enveloped it was gone. He
Could breathe and his heart rate slowed, at least a tiny
Bit, enough to feel.

                                   They were in Rojo's Bar, one block
From Tony's place, two miles east of Stateline. A rock
Club, a bit of a dive, appointed like a mine: rough
Wood, stone walls, yellow light. Tony came here enough
To nod at the staff, to get an infrequent round on
The house; Tony had written here, met girls here, gone
Home drunk from here a lot. Tony felt comfortable here
And that helped too, more than he knew. His head was clear.
For now he had a window, a chance both to make sense
Of the Fear and to explain it.

                                                 But it was tense
And nervous; it felt like his only chance, that if he
Couldn't say it now, chain it in words, he would be
Forever part of it. The night before, stir-crazy
From hiding all weekend, Tony had gone to see
Cosmic Freeway, Tahoe's best cover band. On Tuesdays,
Everyone went, everyone he knew anyway.
Tony meant to take it slow, not to mess up his head's
Fragile equilibrium. He drank beer instead
Of liquor, avoided the dance floor, just talked with friends.
But his friends were drunk and high. Besides, by the end
Of his second beer, the nightclub had become a strange
Study in transmission, almost a lab. The range
Of vectors kept expanding, her to him to her to
Him to him to her to her to me, in fine new
Lattices: a spider's web of sex and sexy death,
Married and with child in pickup lines and beer breath,
In the languorous drone-bee summons from the small hips
And breasts of the band's lovely doo-wop girl, whose lips
No longer sang but called the time to a dark old dance --
And he had to run away.

                                           This was his one chance,
Here with Bolan. His freaking out last night, last weekend,
These were the beginning. The Fear would twist and bend
Him 'til he snapped. It would get worse, much worse.

                                                                                    Yvette sat
At the end of the bar, waiting for them -- or at
Least it felt that way, that she was being indulgent,
Humoring Bolan's friend. She was sexy. She lent
Herself to nasty fantasies, gave life to harsh, quick
Porno words inside his head -- ball cunt split thrust prick --
And Tony was ill-equipped to deal with desire
These days, nor with her razor attitude and her
Shaved head.

                        She had, nonetheless, a liveliness Tony
Felt and enjoyed; her eyes were huge, blue, and lovely
Even if they darted too fast, hardened too often;
Her lithe, compact dancer's body led his eyes when
She moved along her superb proportions; her teeth had
Gaps that made him smile at her smiles. And he felt sad
For her, because she reminded him of a story
By Anais Nin, about a strong fiery
Prostitute who seemed to wear her sex outside, like some
Strange shield. Men who saw her couldn't turn away; dumb
With desire, they would follow her for blocks and would
Pay any price that she asked. But she herself could
Not know pleasure. With her sex outside, she was not whole,
Not a woman; she could command, but not control,
The energies of men.

                                    Even so, Yvette still made
Him feel stammering, virginal. He hoped she stayed
Away for a while, at least long enough for him to
Talk to Bolan. Not with Bolan, he already knew.
Talks with Bolan were both academic and laid-back,
With long explanations wandering way off-track
But never quite getting lost, often finding good new
Ideas on their sloppy relaxed path. Talks to
Bolan, however, were talks to a friend, a gorgeous
Friend with Santa Claus's eyes and a red wine buzz
For a smile, a friend from 7th grade, a friend who can
Understand, who is right now your one lifeline. "Man,
I'm glad you're here."

                                     "Me too. So, anyway. What's the deal?"

 Tony took a sip of beer and began. "I feel
Like I understand it. I have...well, a framework. You
Have to start by dividing yourself into two --
The strong and the good.

                                           "Good is not moral, at least not
Necessarily. It's more the social you, what
You are to others: how giving, how selfish, how open
You are to the demands of the world, where and when
You refuse to give. It is also the you that makes
This goodness, your desires and fears, your mistakes
And what you have learned from them, what you believe your place
Is in the world. It is the end result, the face
Of who you are. It is not a way to judge any
Single quality as good or bad, as healthy
Or unhealthy; the same self-absorption which makes you
An excellent painter can also leave a few
Broken hearts, or worse, behind you. Here, good is the sum,
Not the parts.

                        "Strong determines how close you can come
To this ideal you. No matter what you want to
Be -- or rather, what is right for you to be -- you
Only bring out what you can. Without strength, you control
Neither girls nor canvas; the goodness in your soul
Can't push away all the other people pushing out
Their ideal selves. You just can't be you without
Power. Okay so far?"

                                   Bolan winced. "Suspiciously
New Age, even from you ... but, okay."

                                                              "Bear with me.
So. Let's say that, by the time you grow up -- which for us
Is now -- you have a certain degree of goodness
In you. Whatever it is: the Dalai Lama's is
Way high, Adolph Hitler's was far lower. But this
Level is stable. Only some trauma or concerted
Act of will can change this balance inside your head.
Of course, you are dynamic. Goodness is average
Over time. For days, even months, you can manage
To avoid destructive behavior, only to go
Batshit crazy about the stupidest thing, no
Reason at all. But this bad craziness is always
Inside you; it gaining control for a few days
Is a sign not of failure or weakness, but more a
Loss of equilibrium."

                                  "It could, in its way,
Even be part of that equilibrium," Bolan
Said. "In retrospect, your 'screwing up' sometimes can
Turn out to be the best move you could have made in that
Situation."

                    "Sometimes, sure," Tony said.

                                                                    "And at
Other times, you just screw up. You want another beer?"

 "Yeah." Tony relaxed. If Bolan had just sat here
Listening, it would have been a bad sign; Socratic
Dialogues mean that you have a sympathetic
Ear, not that people are paying attention to you.
"So you think that this losing your shit every few
Weeks is a natural thing? That it's how you're wired?"

 "No."

             "Good. I was worried..."

                                                       "No, I get too tired,
Too drained for it to be healthy. My heart racing when
I sit is not healthy, I know that. But then again,
It doesn't feel ... wrong. It's not like alcohol or pot,
Not a 'high' -- or a low. My perceptions have not
Changed much, I see the same things -- I am more sensitive,
Perhaps. But my thoughts are vastly more negative,
Disproportionately so, as if I sandpapered
My fingers so as to feel more, but thus colored
My new feelings with pain. In fact, it's exactly like
That: a small-scale imbalance, required to strike
A large-scale balance inside my head.

                                                             "No, what I think
Is, I've gotten stronger but not better. I sink
Into these blue funks because I always have. Back East,
It felt more consistent, or less extreme at least,
Because I was weaker. Go forward two steps, back one:
A mediocre pace, but constant. I've begun
To make much bigger steps here. By leaving a nasty,
Confusing scene, I have more energy for me.
But I haven't done anything about my tendency to screw
Myself up."

                    "What tendency is that?" Bolan asked. "You
Say that a part of you -- this 'bad' part -- wants to fail, or
At least fears success. But there are few people more
Hungry for success than you, man. You cut your losses
Pretty fast (except with girls); you do take chances
But you do nothing self-destructive. I just don't see
This 'bad' part."

                          "Do you remember the Bhagwan Shree
Rajneesh?"

                      Bolan barely stifled a laugh. "The Bhagwan?
Yeah, sure. The cult leader, right? Up in Oregon,
With the Rolls-Royces and the drug habit? So what's he
Got to do with this?"

                                "Well, his story started me
Thinking about the stronger/better thing. Turns out that
The Bhagwan was once for real. He taught people at
This commune place he founded in India, and he
Was considered a man of some wisdom, maybe
Even genuine enlightenment. The folks who make
These judgments are themselves flaky, so you could take
This assertion with a grain of salt: but, go with it
For now.

                 "Anyway, he then decided to split
His commune into two, and brought half of it here to
America, to set up a base and gain new
Disciples. So far, so good. But, very soon after
This, the Bhagwan loses it. No one knows for sure
How long it took, but soon he's waving at his students
From inside limousines. His teachings have been bent
From accepting the guidance of one's spiritual
Master, to submission to his will.

                                                      "Throughout all
This, though, the Bhagwan doesn't seem to savor
His power. He fucks a few blondes, gets a few more
Toys; he officiates ceremonies, and appears
To his flock often enough. But he's never here:
With you, in your face, real. He's always at a distance,
Which is not how most cults operate. Dominance
Is a hands-on process. Cults of personality
Must ultimately be backed up by somebody
Who will grab you by the shoulders and tell you, 'I'm right.
Follow me.' And those who lust for power delight
Most in its actual application. In Jonestown,
Jim Jones pressed the flesh. Riding in limos around
The compound isn't the same -- and it's not enough. This
Is good; by being half-assed, Rajneeshipur missed
Becoming a new Jonestown. But it makes the Bhagwan
A different case."

                              "Less responsible?"

                                                                "Yeah, the pawn
Of unscrupulous assistants, twisted by evil
Plotters." Tony chuckled. "No way, man. While the full
Shame may belong to several people, Rajneesh ran
The show; and on his head lies the blame. But the man
Was turned against himself, turned from strength, turned a long, slow
Perversion to weakness ... perhaps he did not grow
Weak, as much as he grew disharmonious. Perhaps
When Rajneesh crosses the ocean, when he adapts
To comely followers without sexual taboos
Whose wealth exceeds the dreams of Indian gurus,
Perhaps this newfound power shifts a balance. Perhaps
The small egoism that good teachers need taps
This new power, and through it changes its alignment
To the whole. Still proportionate, but an agent
Now, a focus -- a leader, not a guide. When he saw
What was happening, he managed only to draw
The line, to paralyze himself -- his selves old and new --
But not to get his old self back."

                                                   "That's happened to you,
You think?"

                     "I have yet to find that balance -- my
New strength only highlights that. But from his loss, I
Learned what screwed him up. I too had the naive belief
That getting stronger meant getting better. My brief
Fits are a sign that I must use my strength, not just trust
It. Strength is not an ally; it's a tool. I must
Use my strength to find a greater goodness -- really to
Make one. The person I am is not someone who
Should be allowed this much strength. I'm not good enough yet.
I'm not the Tony I should be."

                                                 "Can we get
Out of here? This is lame." Yvette stood between him and
Bolan, stood tiny, bored, and severe. Her hand
Brushed along Bolan's arm, in a childlike, decadent
Motion that Tony liked, that disturbed him.

*

                                                                          "They're bent
About it and I don't see why. It's just natural.
There's no reason to make it out all weird. It's nothing!"
Bolan just nodded, as if Yvette were bashing
The Bush administration, or discussing the right
To choose -- something easy that they agreed on. Tony
Followed Bolan's lead and nodded too. He really
Wanted to agree; in his heart he felt Yvette should
Be right. It would be a happier world, it would
Be a nicer world, he was sure, if Yvette were right.

 But, Christ, she had changed her tampon right here.

                                                                                 The white,
Slightly soiled stick -- it looked like a Q-tip trying
To be a cigarette -- sat in the ashtray, the new
Tampon's wrapper crumpled beside it. She had changed it
Under the table, out of sight. It was a bit
Unusual, but not offensive -- no mess, no smell,
Just BOOM! It's done.

                                        But, Jesus, her tampon? This fell
Beyond the generous limits of the evening's
Weirdness. For the first time, he thought she was trying
Too hard.

                   They were now at the Goalpost, up Kingsbury
Grade, the big hill on the Nevada side. The TV
Showed Denise Austin doing aerobics, which put it
Just after 3 A.M. (ESPN transmits
The show for East/Central times, then repeats it later
For the West Coast). After nine months of seeing her
Above bars, Tony allowed a grudging fondness for
Her energy, her unsinkable grin: no more,
They said, time to go.

                                    The Goalpost was their third bar, not
Counting casinos or the two hours of pot
And bad tequila at Tony's house, two hours in
Which Fear, philosophy and brooding had given
Way to fun. Stupid fun, like blackjack, craps and ogling
Waitresses, hearing guys yell "Sinéad!" and laughing
While Yvette bristled; smart fun, like Tony reading some
Hard dominance porn that he wrote as a scene from
A future story (Yvette did a split on the floor
And rocked herself gently, her eyes respectful and more
Alluring for it), reading Sandman comics (Yvette
Loved the drawings of Mazikeen, half cute punkette
Half chewed decaying corpse; and the strange surreal parade
Of Two-for-One drinks at Bennigan's, where each man made
Eye contact with Yvette, and many came right up to
The table and asked for sex, despite (because?) two
Large men sitting on each side of her. It made Tony
Both protective and in awe of Yvette, to see
His fellow men behave that way, to witness their quick
Surrender to the mewling hunger in their dicks.

 The Goalpost was quiet and empty. The small candle
In the booth barely lit their faces, unable
To overcome the dark old wood walls and the faint blue
Haze from the video poker screens. With a few
Hours' use, Tony once again felt comfortable in
The biker clothes Yvette had dragged out for him
To wear. Tahoe was a T-shirts and shorts place, not black
Leather and torn jeans; after nine months, going back
To an arty style felt odd, but they had insisted.

 With her tampon changing Yvette interrupted
Bolan's story about hitch-hiking across Holland.
He continued, "So, we got off the ferry and
It was cold and rainy. The young couple I had been
Talking with on the boat offered me a ride in
Their car. They seemed pretty straight and all, and of course I
Said yes. So we drove for two hours, then the guy
All of a sudden drives off the road, down this small hill,
Real fast. I'm thinking, 'Shit. They roll tourists. They'll kill
Me. I'm dead.'

                        "I'm trying to decide if I want to
Jump out of the car, but then we stop. The woman, who
Has been holding this big purse in her lap, starts digging
Into it and pulls out just the biggest fucking
Brick of hash I've ever seen. It's the size of a shoebox,
Stinks like anything. The guy meanwhile gets ziploc
Bags, and they start breaking the brick up into a lot
Of small pieces to stick them in the bags. They've got
No interest in me at all.

                                      "Well, after twenty
Minutes or so, the smell began to get to me
And I asked them if I could crack the window open.
They stared at me, real surprised, and said, 'Sure, fine.' Then
The wife passes me this bag with a big chunk of it.
'Would you like some?'"

                                        "How much did she give you?"

                                                                                            "A bit
Larger than a cigarette pack," Bolan said, blocking
Out the size with his hands. "When they finished breaking
It all up -- it took about thirty minutes -- we smoked some
And got back on the road again. When you're a bum
Shit like that happens all the time."

                                                      "Worse shit happens too,"
Tony said.

                     "Yeah," Bolan said, then trailed off, a blue
Video glint of confidence in his eyes. Tony
Imagined a diver standing over heavy
Roiling ocean, about to leap, sure that he can catch
The wave's crest and hold it before the waves can snatch
His life. "I was lucky."

                                     "So, was it good?" Yvette
Asked.

               "What, the hash? Oh, yeah! Incredible stuff. I bet
Tony remembers."

                                "What?"

                                                "That was the stuff you and I
Smoked at the Die Kreuzen show."

                                                         "That was that hash? My
God. Of course I remember. Kind of."

                                                              They traded grins,
Yvette looking between them, wanting to get in
On the joke. "Tony lost it at Die Kreuzen," Bolan
Explained. "He shoved his way to the front and began
Staring at the guitar -- "

                                   " -- The bass," Tony corrected.

 "That's right. The 'fabulous' bass. It was all you said.
Fabulous. What was it again?"

                                                  "A Rickenbacker.
The bat-shaped one."

                                    "Ooh," Yvette agreed with a purr.
"Those are cool."

                             "Yeah, but after about two songs, Tony
Runs to the bar and starts writing down lyrics he
Just suddenly composed. He kept doing that throughout
The show: stare at the bass, say 'fabulous' about
Fifty times, write a lyric; stare at the bass ... and so
On. He was just out there. They were good lyrics, though."

 "Thank you."

                         Yvette stared at Tony for a long moment.
"So. Where is he?" she asked.

                                                   "Who?"

                                                                   "The guy who went
All weird at Die Kreuzen. I haven't seen that guy yet."

 Tony met her stare. "He's a little desperate
Lately. I don't know." He looked up at the TV set
Where Denise Austin still smiled, then back at Yvette.
"We'll try and find him for you, okay?"

                                                               "Okay. That's cool."

*

Tony had to wake up early to go to school,
An introductory Spanish class at Lake Tahoe
Community College. A film called Milagro
En Roma took up the whole of the class, a screenplay
From a Marquez tale of a girl whose body stays
Fresh and young-looking, though she has been dead eleven years.
Her father carts the corpse to Rome, convinced that here
Is a true miracle, but neither the Holy See
Nor the Colombian consulate wants to be
Part of such an unfashionable undertaking.
It was a good film, and funny, save the longing,
Painful incomprehension of the father. He ran
Through the satire like a zombie knife, lost and
Unable to make sense of the interdependence
Of his daughter's death and God's wonderful, immense
Rightness.

                    After class he helped a cute classmate with her
Term paper. He'd been checking her out all quarter,
But now when they sat outside, in stark sunlight and cool
Breeze, it seemed frivolous to think of girls, a fool's
Silly dream. The bike trail north from the college invited
Him to skate. The trail began near his house, and it led
To the college's large smooth parking lot. Mastering
Its abrupt turns and drops was his first small skating
Victory, the first hit of adrenaline and grace.
It seemed long ago. He turned so as not to face
It and for an hour applied himself to the paper.

 When she left he watched her, taking idle pleasure
In her walk, in the pert jerks of her lean calves and butt.
They spoke to him in gentle voices: You know what
This is; this is Fear. You like girls. You like skating. You
Are twenty-four.

                                Get a grip. Get tested.

                                                                        He knew
The number by heart, from looking it up and staring
At it every morning. He called: they were taking
Walk-ins until twelve-thirty. He called Bolan and said
He'd be late.

                         "You're getting tested?"

                                                                  "Yeah."

                                                                                  "Watch your head."

*	anchors:  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Comments

Part 3

"I, uh, I was with this woman, see, and I wasn't,
You know, wearing anything. Now I heard she went
Around with lotsa guys, and was doing drugs and stuff,"
The man told the nurse. He was in his forties, tough
And leathery, longish hair and biker clothes. He looked
No stranger to drug usage himself. Tony took
A courteous step back.

                                           The man's voice was nervous but
Insistent, angry, not afraid. That voice was what
Tony had used the first time he had been tested, last
Summer, after the girl he had been seeing had passed
Along some other guy's crabs. He had little reason
To fear infection; like the man at the desk, he'd gone
To the clinic to degrade her, to make her unclean.
The bitch probably even has AIDS: in a scene
He replayed again and again in his head he said
This to all his friends, and every time they nodded
In agreement and with sympathy, he grew stronger.
It was a confirmation, hearing the man stammer
With anger, Tony's first real point of comparison
Between a self he had been before and the one
He was now. At this desk, Tony's voice had been measured,
Emphysematically weak. The nurse hadn't
Heard him the first time. See, he told himself wryly, you are
Fucked up. There's objective proof.

                                                           He walked to the far
Side of the large waiting room and read the posters in
Dramatic Spanish. "Algunos hombres viven en
Dos Mundos," said one, showing a man standing between
A stoic wife and child and a frailer, pristine
Man with longing eyes. He wondered about the poster's
Paranoia, its cool bigotry; if it were
In English the gays would surely have protested. Do
They really need this stuff to get the message through
To Hispanics, or did the Health Department just think
They did? He worried the thought, almost at the brink
Of getting lost in it -- then they called him, by number.

*

 "We have the same birthday," the man said. "October
14th." He looked up from Tony's form and smiled. "That's neat."
The man was medium-height, wide of build, his seat
Barely fitting him in. He had a friendly, burly
Face under lots of luxuriantly curly
Brown hair, and bright eyes. He was, Tony knew instantly,
The kind of guy you want your counselor to be.
"Okay. My name's Brad. So, why are you here?"

                                                                                        "Because I'm
Just really messed up," Tony said.

                                                                He took his time
Telling the story. Brad appeared interested but
Curiously impassive, with no clue what
He was thinking. He waited a polite beat after
Tony and Kathy the cokehead fell asleep (her
Hand on his neck had felt moist, he remembered, spongy
With the oil from the massage she had given him. He
Had read to her first, the first act of The Importance
Of Being Earnest. Their fuck had been a jerk-dance,
Hesitant, not great; his good, lively voice had relaxed
Her, and her delight had made him feel success) then asked,
"So, why didn't you use a condom? Do you need some?
I mean, HERE!" Brad raised his hand and, like magic, from
His palm to the desk stretched a silver wand, a gleaming
Comet, a strip of Lifestyles® condoms reflecting
The light dully. Tony felt a strong sudden need for
A cigarette, to buy him time to become more
Accustomed to it, to counter it with his own wand
Of power, to encase its inorganic and
Antiseptic sparkle in comforting, earthy smoke.

 "Uh, I did have some. In the night stand." Tony spoke
Slowly, looking down, his face first sheepish, then changing
To naked, to scared, to shit-scared of not being
Normal and whole. "I just can't come wearing one. I've tried
But I can't do it. I don't feel enough inside
Or something." He had made it with the whore in Carson
(when she had gone down on him, of course he wore one),
But that was from the novelty, and altogether
Beside the point.

                                 Except to nod, Brad didn't stir.
Had he learned this? Was he bored? Could you really get
Used to other people's desperation? How did he let
Off steam? "That happens," he said. "Was your first without one?"

 "Yeah, it was."

                             "And this one -- I take it she was on
The Pill?"

                   "She said so."

                                                "Hey, at least you asked. Most guys don't.
I do understand. I mean, if you know she won't
Get pregnant, the only reason you'd be wearing
It is to protect yourself, to keep from getting
A disease. Not exactly a stimulating thought."

 "No, it isn't. So what do I do?"

                                                         "Well, you've got
To get used to them," Brad said, matter-of-fact. "Have you
Tried masturbating with one on?"

                                                              "Have I tried to --"
Tony stopped, incredulous. Jerk off with a rubber?
Why in God's name would I --

                                                         Then it all washed over
Tony, a huge wave of self-forgiveness and relief:
To wear condoms is not normal, it is a brief
Fashion, a thing you must learn for necessity's sake.
Just because it is your cock does not mean you make
The transition effortlessly. Its motion may be
Less complex than arms or legs, but its mastery
Takes time as well. "No. I never even thought of it."

 "Try it sometime," said Brad. "It might help you to fit
Them into your sex, to keep the rhythm. Here, you can
Start with these." He reached in the box -- the condom band
Lay in a carton on Brad's desk, hidden behind some
Pens and scotch-tape -- and tore off a yard. "You can come
Back for more, if you -- "

                                               "It's cool. I can buy them," Tony
Said gently. "Thanks for these."

                                                          "You're welcome. Now, any
Other potential risks?" They went clinically through
His recent sex life. Brad saw vectors in each new
Event, including cunnilingus. "Yep, CDC
Has one: an impotent paraplegic, only
Able to climax his heroin-addict girlfriend
That way." (A month later, that same story would send
A friend of Tony's and immunologist into
A weary tirade about evidence. "They knew
He was telling the truth? How? If one of her friends had
Raped him up the ass, you think he'd admit it? It's bad
Science." Good food for thought, but little comfort somehow.)

 The parade of nebulous horrors soon stopped. "Now,
I don't think you're in great danger. But just be aware,
Most of these were enough. I am trying to scare
You. In a good way." He smiled again, his large body
Radiating ease but his eyes sharp with study.
This was work for Brad after all, initiating
A controlled, constructive freak-out without pushing
Him into complete paranoia, all in about
Twenty minutes. No room for error, time for doubt:
At least he's not bored, Tony thought, and was surprised at
How relieved the thought made him feel.

                                                                            "So -- "

                                                                                           "The odds that
You contracted HIV from the encounter you
Described are small. You are low-risk. This is not to
Say there isn't a chance, and another encounter
Could infect you tomorrow. So know your partner,
And wear the damn condom. Got it?"

                                                                     "Yeah."

                                                                                     "Are you settling
In Tahoe?"

                       "No, I'm going back East, start looking
For a job."

                       "Doing what?"

                                                     "Oh, I don't know. It doesn't
Matter, at least not at first. Enough to pay rent.
You see, I write. I've been working on both a novel
And a screenplay, and now I have to try to sell
Them both."

                        Brad raised an eyebrow. "You couldn't do that here?"

 "I could, I guess. In some ways I think Tahoe is near
To being perfect. I got a lot done. But also
I miss a lot. Part of me needs art scenes, to go
To foreign films and real bookstores. I miss ambition,
And general intensity, you know? That's one
Thing: a lot of people here are stuck in a holding
Pattern. So many vapid, self-aggrandizing
Fuck-ups here, and they don't do anything. It drives me
Crazy."

               Brad was laughing relaxed and openly,
Less restrained now that the session was over. "That's true.
Tahoe is kind of a refuge. What did you
Say? 'Vapid, self-aggrandizing fuck-ups.' That's really
Good. Think I'll use that sometime." He smiled impishly.
"You're ready to move on and you've got an ambitious
Plan. I think that's great."

                                               "I hope so. I'll have to bust
My ass. It'll be tough."

                                         "It will. Of course, if you got
AIDS, you wouldn't have to."

                                                        "Uh, excuse me?"

                                                                                          "You're not
Expected to be anything. You have a fatal
Disease. Each new day is a victory -- a small
One, but no one can say you've failed. It's an attractive
Option. No need to work; no point in it. Just live.
I think part of you likes that idea."

                                                                You're high,
Tony thought, staring incredulously. The guy
Was losing it. Who in his right mind wants AIDS?

                                                                                           But then
He felt his body shift, his leg muscles tighten,
Preparing to run out the door. You are full of shit.
But his body was confessing the truth of it,
And Tony knew he would not recover without
Facing it.

                      Failure is just not possible. Doubt
This, and you have a world that doesn't suckle Tony,
Where potential can become mediocrity
Not glory, where small talent can make you aware of
The truest, finest subtleties, will make you love
Them, but won't let you create them yourself. Doubt this and
Lose faith in the god of Charmed Happenstance, whose hand
On your shoulder guides you where you are destined to go.
Doubt this and the world is risk and gamble, a low
Hard place best for weeds, not hothouse flowers.

                                                                                           Failure
Is just not possible. Simply to be unsure
Of yourself is to question all that you believe in,
And that is an impossible life. You begin
To look for a way out, any way.

                                                            "Yeah, maybe that
Is part of it," Tony finally said. "Or at
Least it's something to think about." He shoved the insight
Deep in his brain. He couldn't think about it right
Now; it was too close to the fear and panic to try
To separate.

                         Brad nodded. "You're really not high-
Risk, or at least not anywhere near what you seem to
Fear. Part of this is your head." He paused. "Time for you
To get the test." Brad stood, waiting for Tony to stand
And collect his things before he offered his hand.
"When we get the results you'll either see me again
Or the other counselor. We talk with you when
We give you the results."

                                               "Thanks."

                                                                   "Sure. Anyway. Good luck."

*

He had planned on being chatty, but the words stuck
In his throat when he was confronted with the stark, neat
Clinic room. Which was fine by the nurse. She wore street
Clothes, a long skirt and a maroon cardigan against
The chill air-conditioning.

                                                 Tony clenched his fist
To make a vein. The nurse had long and dexterous hands,
A lovely heart-shaped face. She was plump from kids and
Office work. There was a push, then blood flowed. She had brown,
Large eyes that darted around, up to his face, down
To the test tube. He imagined being her husband,
Waking up to her, enjoying her firm touch and
The soft-focused cessation of her eyes when she came.
Then it was done. He was cold.

*

                                                              Maybe it is the same
Thing, Tony thought wordlessly, gasping for air between
New spasms of laughter. Maybe the Fear that's been
Making me tremble and the joyful rightness bubbling
Out of me now are the same. He felt a bright thing,
Sharp and dense with motion, like the light that reflected
Off waves -- then it was gone. Maybe just retreated.

 Bolan was looking at him with concern. Tony grinned
And fell back against the wall. It resonated
Loudly through the paneling and that was good too. I'm
A big guy, he thought. I make noise. About time
I accepted that. "I'm so glad you came," Tony said.
"It's great that you're here."

                                                  Bolan's imp smile pretended
Not to understand what he really meant. "We're having
A fantastic time, Tony. Thank you for letting
Us come." But Bolan was still leery, and there was no
Way Tony could reassure him and not blow
The moment.

                           He didn't try, just put his arm around
Bolan's shoulders instead. "Any time."

                                                                      It was bound
To happen, this huge release, Tony now thought. The whole
Day had been one long transformation with this goal
In mind; since Tony had left the clinic everything
He did had an edge, as if the world was slicing
Through his cocoon to let him out.

                                                                There was the moment
Coming out of the convenience store. Bolan went
Ahead to light his cigarette out of the breeze, while
Tony waited for Yvette. She flashed him a smile
And held her new bottle opener to her chest. "See?
They go together." The purple lace bra that she
Wore under her biker jacket matched the metallic
Magenta opener.

                               "Nice."

                                               "Yeah." With a click
She fitted its ring into her zipper pull. "Maybe
I'll dye my hair that color too."

                                                         "What hair?" Tony
Asked.

               "Maybe I'll grow some. You know, a buzz cut. So, why
Do you have a band-aid on your arm? Like, if I
Shouldn't ask you --"

                                       "I got an AIDS test today."

                                                                                         "You did
What?" She looked as if he'd gone mad. "Why?"

                                                                                     Tony hid
His confusion by drawing himself up and fixing
Yvette with his best Yale stare. "It's the 90's. Being
A sexually-active male means I have to take
Responsibility for myself. You can't make
AIDS go away by ignoring it. That's why."

                                                                              Yvette
Thought a moment, then clacked her tongue. "I went to get
Tested once. The worst two weeks of my whole fucking life."
She ran to catch Bolan, her honesty a knife
In his deflating