Cohort 1161


Heat warps the sky and trees and street. The brick building melts like wax. He
answers the door without a word. We both know why I have come. The room
smells heavy with cat. Votive candles provide the only light. The one tobacco-
browned window is shut. No air-conditioner, no fan. I ask if I can open the
window, and he says no. My skin feels like it is covered thick with body make-
up. I tell him I am a little thirsty, and he hands me a smudged Flintstones glass
of water, no ice. I don’t rest my clipboard on the red metal table thick with
grease. I’m afraid these details betray us both. I write only, “Unhygienic
surroundings.” The little fingernail on his left hand is long, lacquered red,
chipped. His hair is dirty, his nylon shirt stained. Under “Personal Hygiene” I
write “Poor.” My eyes get used to the dim space. I can see posters and
photographs paper the walls: all of Olivia Newton-John, in various poses and
outfits and moods. In one she is a sailor. On empty milk crates, offerings to her:
Oreos, a harmonica, plastic daisies, a bowl of clear red liquid, pieces of paper with
scratched-out words on them. His face remains anonymous as an icon. His eyes
follow mine. My eyes ask him to explain. He turns away. I do not write, The
room has become his soul. I start the battery of questions. Have you ever used any
I.V. drugs? “No.” Have you ever used any illegal drugs? “No.” How many
sex partners in the past week? “Zero.” The past month? “Zero.” The past year?
“Zero.” In your life? “Zero.” He has not so much as kissed another person. I
ask why he is being tested, and he says, “Because I’m scared.” I ask if he knows
anyone with AIDS, and he tells me, “No, I don’t know anybody at all.” I ask
why he is so afraid, and he looks away. He looks at the poster from Grease. I
ask if he wants me to leave, and he says, “I called you.” I ask if he is sure he
wants his blood drawn, and he says, “Yes.” I wrap the tourniquet around his
thick arm. He looks into my eyes and tells me, “I want you to stay forever.”