Month seven on crutches, two months out of the hospital. I was finally allowed to travel.
I apologized to the blond, balding security officer for my overstuffed bag; he was unfazed by the magazines, un-capped lipstick and sticky receipts. But his jaw dropped when he reached the clear zipper bag. This was where I kept my orange bottles of prescriptions, fourteen in total.
Each night I’d brush my teeth, standing like a flamingo on my one leg, since the other leg was defective. With a large glass of water I’d start left to right, slowly swallowing each pill. The color and texture and the after taste reminding me exactly what was wrong. I’d try to distract myself by reading the directions on my mouthwash, but the red pill never failed to remind me of my stomach problems or the white that my blood platelets weren’t high enough, or the yellow that I had premature arthritis.
Crutches are great, but the real hookups were when I was in a wheelchair. My friends took me to a Dave Matthews concert and we were led to the front row. We relished the sweat and the spit of his guitarists. There are the bonuses, like parking in a handicap spot and not feeling guilty. But that’s where they ended.
After getting off the train and making my way to the gate, I had forgotten that handicap people board last. There is a woman quietly sitting in a wheel chair a few feet away from me. Around fifty, her chair was beaten up, with a fanny pack slung around her waist. I collapsed next to her. She said hello and we chatted for a few minutes before the flight attendant waved to both of us, signaling that it was our turn to board.
I took a deep breath prepared to grin and bear the wrath of the punctual travelers, as I was the habitually late, always the last to board. But when my eyes met those belonging to the passengers around me, there was no irritation; instead I was greeted with sympathy.
I had the entire first row to myself, so quickly fell into a deep, vicodin-induced slumber. Until Mr. Charisma showed up.
Mr. Charisma nodded, then took the remaining gulp of his cocktail. “Born in 1981 with two older siblings and Republican parents. They’re decent folks, I promise. They bought me GI-Joe. The boys would rip off their head and slingshot the figurines at the girls during recess. I preferred to dress GI-Joe in my sister’s Barbie clothes.
Pausing to catch his breath, he continued. “Football season in 7th grade, I was the quarterback, great hand-eye coordination, but when Blake Mainer hiked the ball, it hit me in the face. I was too busy staring at his delectable ass. So I had to quit. Imagine facing sexy boys in the locker room everyday? But it wasn’t until my second year in college that I officially came out of the closet. My parents called it a phase, a stage, an act of rebellion; my father was ashamed that I was his son. So I packed up a U-Haul and moved to Colorado, where nobody could remember me as straight.”
“So you’re gay and your parents won’t accept it?” Spilled out of my mouth before I could suck it back in.
“100% tried and true. It’s been several years since I relocated to Colorado. Since then my father has learned to accept and embrace me, sexual preference and all.”
“So what’s so terrible about going home?” I asked.
“Well, I have some news, and it isn’t the type of news you break over the phone.”
But before he could tell me the news, the woman across the aisle, the same woman waiting at the gate with me, who’d been snoring the whole flight, was stirring.
“Oops. We were too loud.” I said.
“Wonder why she got a special ‘handicap seat’. Bitch.” He said.
I pointed to where her left leg should have been. In its place, nothing.
“Whoa. We’ve got a paraplegic on the plane.”
“It gets worse. She lost her leg when she was 24-years old. She was a
swimmer.”
We both stared. It’s impossible to envision her swimming. I estimated she weighed at least 200 pounds. Her hair is mouse brown, an ageless man-cut, perfected at Great Clips. Her apparel consisted of leggings and a sweatshirt that read, “Best Aunt in the World.” I wondered how this woman could let herself go like that? Did she own a comb? But, who was I to judge?
She resembled Roseanne.
“She fell back asleep.” He pointed.
“Phew. So guess how she lost her leg?” I whispered.
He scooted closer.
“Staph infection.” I said.
“Shut up. How do you know?” He said.
“We were waiting at the gate together. Thank God the flight attendants interrupted our conversation before she could ask why I was on crutches. Imagine how’d she feel if she knew I had staph infection too. Only I didn’t need my leg amputated.”
“So what’s your news?” I asked.
He took a deep breath.... he gave me a once over and decided to trust me. “It was the 4th of July. I was visiting some friends in Los Angeles. We were at a posh club. Instead of normally crawling into a corner with my cocktail, insecure and envious of those carefree people on the dance floor, trying to dissect the gay from the straight. I took the opportunity to be extroverted. It was so fun. It was also a mistake.”
“How is that a mistake?” I asked.
“Honey, be patient okay. This is the premise. I’ll get to juicy stuff in a moment.”
“Oh I’m sorry.”
“So there were velvet ropes, bouncers, and exclusive VIP lists. Inside was even better. Plush leather couches, chandeliers, and more exquisite bodies than a summer Vogue issue. The women were all panthers. And the men, oh the men were glorious. Each man a variation of Adonis, this was a heaven of sexual erotica. And I got drunk.”
I nodded.
“Being curious and somewhat confident in my new Versace jeans, I followed a particular group into one of the private VIP rooms. Before I realize what is happening, a tall woman, a glamorous model, a gazelle is introducing me to her “gay” friend. So giddy that there is another, and even more excited because I could tell he was giddy too. Freed from all the straights, we chatted and danced and kissed. He made me feel so warm and welcome and, accepted.”
“Why do I think that this doesn’t have a good ending?” I said.
“Oh Peach, the ending has happened yet. But it will. And soon.”
He made no sense.
“When he invited back to his loft, I couldn’t refuse. I had kissed men before, but I was always too nervous to go beyond. It was an opportunity to finally lose my “homo” virginity. Kissing led to other things. And that is when the night got fuzzy.”
I bit my lip, “Then what?”
“And then I woke up in foreign bed, with a pounding headache and not a soul in sight. It was my first one stand and I didn’t even know the name of the guy. The house was empty, he had left with no phone number, no note, nothing. I grabbed my wallet embarrassed, feeling dirty, and walked to the nearest street corner.”
“Everyone has had a one-night stand. It’s okay.” I reassured him from second-hand knowledge.
“The irony is not that that it was the first one night stand; the irony is that it was also my last. I was diagnosed with HIV about three months ago.”
Through his thick glasses I stared into his eyes. The sparkle wasn’t a natural high. It was desperation to connect, to unearth anyone who could extract value from his disease. He had to somehow logically make sense of the terminal illness, the kind that doesn’t give you a second chance.
“You see darling, you’re not the only one infected on this plane.”
Unsure whether to laugh or to cry, I instead reached across the armrest and patted his arm, “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh Peach. It’s okay. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid because you’re scared. Do stuff because it makes you strong.” He said.
“Deal.” I couldn’t hide the tears I was shedding for this sweet man sitting next to me.
We both heard rustling from across the aisle. The woman was definitely awake. We huddled watching her; coddling our alcoholic beverages.
It was obvious by her large eyes she didn’t want to cause any trouble. She glanced up at the glowing “call” button, but decided not to push it, which would wake everyone up. Déjà vu hit me like a freight train. The constant pride I had to swallow when requesting that my peers or professors or the janitors help carry my book bag or hold my hand in the stairwell. Or at home I would beg, needing assistance with everything, from shaving my legs to putting on socks.
Watching her try to balance her 200-pound body on her one functional leg, I cringed. I assumed her artificial leg was in the overhead bin; she was trying to get to the lavatory. My legs didn’t work either, so I nudged new friend. He jumped out of his seat to rescue the paraplegic.
Instead of being stubborn, she was gracious. He lifted her arm around his shoulders, so he could play the role of her missing leg. It took several minutes to cross the ten feet separating her seat from the toilet. With every second that passed, I experienced less pity, they don’t need it, what surfaced, was admiration.
He stood by the lavatory, protecting her. The few passengers who had woken up by the commotion glanced at him, assuming they were together; he was her son. But the truth; they were only strangers.
Their bodies are so fragile and their spirits so durable. And this indiscernible thing called life hung in the balance.
My new friend plopped back in his seat, “So, back to my story.”
“Yes.” I said. It was 4am and I was exhausted, but I didn’t care.
