V: 11/25/02

Work Diary, 11/25/02

My partner and I met Brandon when he was nineteen. In ten days, Brandon
will be twenty-two, an age when most American males are either
graduating college, married, or - at the very least - firmly ensconced
in a job that involves heavy equipment and grease. Brandon has
accomplished none of these things. He's gay, and admits it in a casual
way that reminds one of a shifty politician who's been caught with his
pants down. He also believes he is stupid and white trash, despite our
protestations (which, due to some fairly obnoxious behavior on
Brandon's part, are not always heartfelt).

How we met Brandon isn't the issue. Some things should remain a
mystery. At nineteen, and just out of high school, he was an
interesting mix of teenage squirrelly-ness, Christian dogma, and
self-loathing. He stopped growing at five-foot seven, and subsequently
he resembles a teenager, as well. He has a French last name, and unlike
most American mutts, he could easily walk through a town in Southern
France without drawing attention to himself.

Brandon's background is one of faceless trailer parks, an absentee
father, a pot-smoking mother, and large American cars that never ran.
He grew up in Arizona, a dusty expanse of overheated nothingness, and
moved to Colorado to live with his sister while finishing high school.
He went to church on Sundays, and was studying to become an electrician
when we met him. "I'm just trying out men to see how it is," he told
us. "It's not like I'm gay or anything."

Ah, the foolhardiness of youth. Brandon came to us with stories about
his sexual escapades that made my toes curl. "Be careful!" we said, and
he promised he would. When he met his boyfriend - a drug dealer from
Alabama whose only positive aspect was his HIV status - we again said,
"Be careful!" Our warnings were not because the boyfriend had HIV, but
because we'd been treated to his drunken rages via telephone, and
listened to Brandon's horror stories about his daily life. Finally,
when we couldn't convince Brandon that it was time to leave his
boyfriend (to run away, in fact, even if we had to pay for it), we
called it quits. It was one thing trying to mentor Brandon in this life
he'd chosen; it was quite another to sit by and watch him throw his
life away.

So, up until this past weekend, we hadn't heard from Brandon for eight
months. Sometimes I'd see him walking along the street, or driving his
boyfriend's ratty Acura, but that was it. Then I checked my voicemail,
and wedged between the gardener and the mortgage company, there was
Brandon. "I was just wondering if you guys are still mad at me," he
said. Then: "I'm not with my boyfriend anymore; I haven't been for two
months. And I got some pretty bad news about my health. I guess I kind
of suspected it?but, anyway, I want to see you guys so give me a call
at?"

After Brandon's cryptic message, I sat on the deck, having a cigarette
and pretending to take a break from the housecleaning. First I was
angry, then disappointed, then furious. This isn't the first time I've
dealt with the HIV menace, but it is the first time I've felt so
protective of a friend with the goddamn thing. Had Brandon been at my
house at that moment, I probably would have taken him out
shopping.

At twenty-two, Brandon's HIV status is not the death warrant it was to
the generation prior to his. That is, of course, if he can finance the
various medications, doctor visits, and psychological testing that come
with the new HIV miracle drugs, little of which will be covered by
private insurance or government agencies. He will face new
facts-of-life. For instance, it would be best if he put on weight now.
He should see an advocate for drawing up a living will, and naturally
he needs to decide how he will divulge his status to sexual partners,
if he chooses to do so at all. With his family, to which he has chosen
to remain close, he'll need to walk the fine line between his condition
and being himself. Families often find it hard to separate the
two.

Brandon's sister called me once. I was at work, and not prepared for
the hysterics coming from this woman I'd never met. "I don't even know
what's going on with him!" she cried. "He tells me his gay, and we
never see him, and this boyfriend of his keeps beating him up and then
calling the house! I have my own kids to watch out for, damn it, but
he's also my little brother!"

Barely a man, our Brandon, and already he's breaking hearts.