Unknown number:
Hi, we haven’t met, but Victor gave me your number and said we could chat.
I’m Ian, how are you?
I consider whether or not I should get back to him. I wonder if it would be better to let the conversation die right now instead of getting involved with someone I don’t even know. Why did I let Eric say it was okay for a stranger to get in touch with me? Why am I making so many concessions to Victor when he doesn’t want anything to do with me? I’m no good for him, but good enough to act as a therapist to someone he just met?
At the same time, I know this guy must be terrified. I’ve been through all this and know how gravity seems off-kilter when there’s so much running through your mind. If I can help him feel better, why should I refuse to? If I’d had somebody to tell me everything would be okay, would I have had to spend so many sleepless nights with my face buried in my pillow, choking back screams and tears?
I remember that, when I was diagnosed, I wanted nothing more than someone to talk to, and the prospect of talking to a complete stranger had started to seem like a viable possibility. I had tried an online HIV support group, but I didn’t like how easy it was for people to remain anonymous online, and most people there would only share how much they wanted to find out who had given them the virus so they could get their revenge but felt exempt from their own responsibility in it.
It wasn’t a good idea. I spent way too much time consumed by all that negativity before finally giving up and trying a different approach, which included Eric and the fear that I had of telling him about my diagnosis.
At the time, we were already sharing our small apartment in Lapa, the result of a bond that stemmed from our similar family histories: My parents couldn’t come to terms with the fact that I wouldn’t give them grandchildren (unless they were adopted) and that I wouldn’t have the traditional church wedding of my mom’s dreams, and Eric, a free spirit who found in drag a form of artistic expression—one that his father considered shameful—got kicked out of the house after his mother died.
Telling Eric about my test results was less traumatizing than I imagined. When something as scary as a chronic virus appears in our lives, we get all sorts of negative thoughts, and the first one is that, somehow, people will look at us differently. That they will avoid us, won’t hug us the way they used to anymore. So when I finally mustered up the courage and showed Eric the slip of paper with the damn X next to HIV+, I don’t really know what I expected. Maybe that he’d be disappointed, maybe that he would start screaming and want to move out, or that he would give me a hug and console me, as if I were on the brink of death.
But he did something else: He just shrugged, gave me back the paper, and asked if I had already started treatment. Afterward he went to the kitchen, opened the cabinets, and started preparing a ham-and-cheese lasagna.
“When my mom was alive, she always said there’s no bit of bad news that can survive a good lasagna. That was when I told her I was gay, both of us knew that my dad wouldn’t like the news, and the cancer was already eating her away. We knew it wouldn’t be easy, so that’s what she did for me. And that’s exactly what I want to tell you: It won’t be easy, but we’ll always have lasagna.”
That was more or less the part where I started crying and hugged him, because I was so thankful to have him in my life. And also because I was hungry.
But what about this Ian guy? Does he have anyone who can make him a lasagna, hug him, and tell him everything is going to be okay? Is he prepared to face the psychological torture that seems to consume you until you finally gather the courage and decide to share the weight of the discovery with someone you love and who will support you? He’s probably as confused as I was those first few days, not quite knowing what was happening or how life could keep on being wonderful, even with all its highs and lows.
I add Ian’s number to my contacts, trying to find my balance among the people pressing against me on the bus, then start typing.
Henrique:
Hi! Of course we can talk. My name’s Henrique, nice to meet you. How’s everything?
Ian:
Confusing.
Henrique:
I can imagine. Maybe it’s best if we talk in person instead?
Ian:
Do you have the time?
Henrique:
We’ll make time. Where do you live?
Ian:
Botafogo, you?
Henrique:
Lapa, but I’m not far from Botafogo.
Ian:
Do you have some time now?
I’m tired and want nothing more than to get home so I can finish Orange Is the New Black. Before I can answer, he sends another message.
Ian:
If not, that’s okay. We can do it some other time. I don’t want to be a bother.
I let out a weary sigh. When people don’t know each other, they tend to avoid the first meet-up, and I know from experience that he must be as uncomfortable as I am about this. If there were another way out, he’d be focusing on it. If he wants to meet in person so urgently, he’s probably doing very badly.
Henrique:
You’re not a bother at all! I’m free. Where can we meet?
Ian:
How about the Botafogo Beach Mall?
Henrique:
Great. Meet you there in … what? Half an hour?
Ian:
Okay. Starbucks?
Henrique:
See you there.
Ian:
Thank you.
:)
I slide the phone back into my pocket and press the stop button. I squeeze between the people tired from their workdays, exit the bus, and start my walk toward the subway.
+
I recognize Ian right away from his shaved head and full beard, just like the picture he sent me. He’s sitting at a two-seat table with two coffees in front of him, and I notice that one of his legs is bouncing up and down. He seems impatient and uncomfortable. When he sees me approach, he smiles.
“I didn’t know what you like, so I ordered a regular coffee with milk,” he says, sliding one of the cups toward me. Next to the cup, there are little packets of all the types of sugar and sweeteners available at Starbucks. I grab a Splenda, open the lid of my coffee, and pour it into the liquid, mixing with the wood stirrer.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say, delighted by his kindness, then sip the beverage and enjoy the refreshing sensation down my throat. “It’s delicious.”
“Oh, and I added a little bit of mint.”
“I’ve never tried that. It’s good.”
He smiles. I put my backpack on my lap and stare at him, not really knowing how to start a conversation with someone I don’t know. I have a degree in design, for God’s sake, not psychology.
“So …” I begin, trying to establish a modicum of intimacy before entering the conversation, because I think that’s what he expects. He looks younger than me, and it’s a truth universally acknowledged that the eldest are wiser and therefore should lead the way. I think. “I don’t want to ask again how things are, because you already said they’re confusing, but … how are you dealing with all of it?”