You introduced yourself to me at Daniel's photo shop, standing by a long, rectangular bookshelf, facing the south corner of Bleecker Street. There were dandelions everywhere, yellow and pulpy, like vinegar bees, and silk curtains of a light blue, curving in the breeze. You were reading Milton, and me Anton Chekhov, quite possibly The Cherry Orchard, and I, by mistake, dropped the book mark Leonard brought back home from Prague. You picked it up, and walked toward me, and smiled a deep, impressionable smile before handing it over. Peter Morrison from Hicksville, pleasure meeting you. Nice meeting you too. Trevor. I said, staring at your eyes; ocean green and bulbous, round like plums. Welcome to the neighborhood, you said politely, your bushy blonde brows twitching periodically. Meet me at the pier on Saturday. Christopher Street. 4 pm. And we left the shop, with unfinished words and a flurry of emotions. Confused, surprised, and oddly satisfied.
When Saturday came, I walked over to the pier in a white poplin shirt, dozens of quarters jangling in the seams of my corduroy pant pockets. It was 4 pm, and you were sitting by the stauette at the Western end of the park, reading Euripides and drinking coffee from a Burmese urn. The air was wet, and dark gray clouds, the color of ash, were squeezing along the diameter of the sky. The warm smell of dewberries was all around, and the chattering of ferry sounds and mewling of a mild drizzle replaced the silence of the afternoon.
I walked up to you, shook your hands, and sat on your left side on the damp, wooden park bench, which had the words 'In Memory of Roslyn, Love, Mom and Dad' embossed on a tin plaque. Your eyes looked narrow, and swollen; the color of beets. And an expression of concern shadowed your face --a certain nervousness, I couldn't quite figure out. Is everything okay, Peter? I asked. No. You said. What's wrong? I paused for a moment, rationalizing possibilities of events, like flipping through pages of an encyclopedia. You heaved a deep, full-bodied sigh. Your finger-tips, once slender and pink, were now dry and purple. And you said to me, in a whisper, The test results came back yesterday. HIV positive.
As you uttered the letters, H, I and V, you collapsed into hysteria. Traces of shame, embarrassment, and fatalism, splotched against the perimeter of your face. Disbelief and fear made your bones hollow. Your tongue became pale, and dry, and formed white hexagons of parched cells, like drought had hit your country. You cleared your throat, twice, peered into my eyes, and said, I don't know how to tell him, Trevor. I'm sure he'll understand, I said. No, he won't. You screamed, three times, your voice getting louder with each successive mention. And then your pitch dropped, and you surrendered to silence, the kind of silence that puts pressure on the ear drums and creates illusions of sounds. And a minute later, you said, We promised to be exclusive.
We chatted some more, and at the end of the hour, as the rain came to the city in roars and rumbles, we kissed in front of bundles of tourists, scrambling for a roof to keep themselves dry. It wasn't love. It wasn't infatuation. But a symbol of consolation, at a time when your world was spinning faster than you could handle. We left, shortly after, bidding goodbye, giving hugs, and retreating with the words, See you around, soon.
But years went by. And I never saw you around. And I imagined you were seeking treatment somewhere, and were doing alright. Until I opened the newspaper today, and saw a picture of you on the last page of the City section.
Peter Morrison. May 1982 - April 2015.
Died of AIDS in Greenwich Village.
You will be loved and missed, always.
Love, Mom and Dad.
