DEMONS FOR DIADEM

                                        DEMONS FOR DIADEM

BELOW THE RADAR

                                

“Hello, never seen you before.”

“Moy furst toime, thenks.”

“You have a British accent; English?”

“Weill, I just caam from Englund; loast night.”

“Cool; name’s Aquileno; yours?”

“Paatrick.”

“Ola Patrick, or Patricia?”

“Soar don’t look like no Patricia soarly. Pleased to meet you.”

“So Patricia, ooops I mean Patrick, I slipped, you hear bout dis latest killer killing us?”

Patrick: “Whut yeh taaking bout? Whot’s killing who?”

Aquileno: “A bunch of us from the Bay area, San Francisco, been getting real sick, fever and flu, before you know dem die.”

Patrick:  “Soorry, di furst toime me heear of thiis.” 

“It must not hit England yet, it’s in New York; a number of guys are coming down and dying as fast as they get to the emergency room,” Aquileno says. After a long silence, he asks;

“Where in England you from?”

“Soorry, whoat did you siay?”

Aquileno: “Where in England you from?”

“Actually I’m from Jamaica, West Indies; lived there for a while,” I responded.

Aquileno: “You don’t speak like Jamaican, you mus’ be the educated ones; hell you white.”

“Left there years ago, studied in Canada, skipped to Britain; am back here.”

At Earl Hall’s summer socials, on this particular Wednesday, a lean, scholarly type approaches us while sitting on the stoop. His caricature reminds me of a figure from the ‘wandering Jew’ myth of literature; baldish, be-spectacled, bookish, gaunt, hooked-nose, tremulous. Kissing Aquileno, he says to me, 

“Hi, Devin meet Patricia; ooops! Sorry, I mean Patrick. Patrick, - their, {“bitch”, (he whispers)} – meet Devin: Ms Jamaica,” says Aquileno.

“Jamaica! Really! Nice to meet you; from Jamaica, really?” He asks.

“Miss Jamaica finished eating the British Isles, devoured Canada, is back picking up the pieces,” Aquileno says, swishing off.

 Devin: “Ever since Fidel dumped her in Florida for Che, she’s a bitter bitch.”

The summer vanishes. Its funereal lethargy re-incarnates into the bustle and hustle of another academic season. The campus’ faculty and students float from Butler Library to Havermayer Hall to Low Rotunda, etc, lacking in energy, excitement, and vibrancy. A listless somberness censures their creative licenses, instead, piercing the air with dread and foreboding.

                                  

                                   TIME LAPSES

“Cuban, been some time!” I say.

“Me and Devin been at the Shore,” explains Aquileno. “It’s boring there. When we gonna eat Carib/Cuban food? I’m tired of the bland kosher stuff.”

“Whenever Fidelita,” I reply.

Patrick: “My co-worker/friend, Frank Riverton, aka Titi/Miss Trinidad & Tobago meet Aquileno/Aquilena Rubena.”

“Hi Miss Havana,” greets Titi.

“Hi,” chuckles Aquileno.

Titi: “Me and friend, Kevin, going to Rochester for the weekend; you wanna come? My friends won’t mind. Patricia is going: Aquileno, how bout you?”

“If Devin don’t insist we go for the weekend, I would go; lemme work him,” answers Aquileno. “When we leave?”

“We leave on the 3:00 pm train from Grand Central.”

Arriving at Central Station, Rochester, at 8:00pm, the post-thanksgiving Friday sadness makes me wish for the tropics of Harlem. Dante, (Diana), our co-host, introduces himself as we drive home. He is from T&T too.

Dinner at Raymond and Ronald’s, Lake Shore Drive, at 11:30p is sumptuous. Earlier on, Raymond related to Diana until Ronald moved in.

Following our Rochester trip, the devastation and grief of the ‘grim reaper’ is unrelenting.

                     -----------------------------------------------------

                                     TERROR UNLEASHED

“You have fi eat someting: dis chicken-vegetable soup will get you betta; nutten no wrong wid yu; just a nasty cold,” insists Joe.

“It’s been a fortnight since being confined,” I groan. Every symptom is an expression of fatality. A condition upon usually running its course, dissipates: Here it stays.

                         ------------------------------------------------------

                           THE ‘REAPER’S’ SCYTHE STRIKES HOME

The sanctuary of Olivet Seventh-Day Baptist Church, Brooklyn, New York populates timely. With space for 250 persons, it’s 4x that today. The 7:30p service starting, Dante and friends, sitting in front, invite Aquileno and me  to sit with them.

Aquileno whispers, “Quite a turn out.”

I reply:  “I should be so lucky. I take that back; what’s lucky about a big funeral?”

                               GETTING TO KNOW TITI

Titi Riverton and I sit a desk apart at work. Instantly our chemistry clicks. An associate pastor at Olivet Seventh-Day Baptist, apart from being coaxing and sociable, he liberates me on the rites and theologies of this branch of Christianity; an aesthetic variation to the ‘Anglicized’ lectionary.

It isn’t long after, that his medical situation sours. Lesions open on his cheeks and lips. After mushrooms are noticeable, he says to me:  “Patricia, I have something very personal to tell you; hope we still friends.”

“I know Titi; no problem,” I say.

“How so Patricia?” He asks.

“I see you taking AZT Titi.”  We hug each other.

Titi: “Patricia, tired of these drugs; wish it all over Patricia; ready for my Lord and Savior.”

                           DEMONS IN A DIADEM

In Rochester, events occur which questions my demons.  Jose, a 19 year old associate of Dante, et al, attaches himself to Frank. Ignoring Kevin, Jose and Titi sleep together.

Going home on the train, Titi says:

“Patricia girl it’s too bad I am with Kevin; he’s a sweetheart; madly in love with Jose though; such a hot Latin lover, he is, uh, uh, uh!”  

“Did you use protection?”  I ask him.

“No girl he wouldn’t hear of it!” He replies.

“Did you tell him of your condition, at least”?

“No! Didn’t want to blow it with that hot li’l papi,” boasted Titi.

“What if he gets infected?” I ask

“I’m not his mother Tricia; Jose’s a big boy,” he answers.

“But…!” 

About to question his clerical and religious taboos, I clam up.

                                 WHILE OTHERS GRIEVE

At the funeral, Michael, a childhood friend of the late Kevin, and an acquaintance of Titi whispers,  “I’m not here for Titi; some pastor; kills Kevin six months now; last week Dante bury Jose; God forgive, that sob infected them; wanna be certain he’s dead.”

                         ---------------------------------------

             “HANDS IN THE LION’S JAWS,” SO TO SPEAK…?

 “Patricia!!!”

“Aquileno!!!”

“You find me?” Aqui asks. “Must be my brother.”

 “No fret pon dat,” I say: “Sick in the head?”

Aquileno: “You go to church Patricia, what’s that line in the funeral service?”

Patrick: “Don’t plan to go to yours; there are several passages in the prayer book. Last time was Titi’s funeral. Long time, yeah?”

“Doug, my brother, old queen marry this fat, noisy Cuban dyke; couldn’t hold him,” explains Aquileno.

“No matter,” I reply: “Can flirt still.”

 Aquileno: “Devin’s at the shore.”

 “What were you up to in Butler’s third floor men’s room?” I ask him.

 “The same thing you were there for, Patricia,” he replies.

“Whore, I went to the archives for a document,” I say.

“It’s at the archives you hang now? You know people are dropping like flies?”

“You should talk! What you here for? You have no virus; just looking pity. You get none, later.”

Devin and Doug are visiting him. I wait for them.

Aquileno eats his meal.

El Caribe Lounge serves cocktails while we wait for a table. Beyond the window, Broadway circulates.

“Wash your hands; can’t take chances with infections,” cautions Aquileno.

“A’aright mami!” Devin snaps. “Pain in the ass!”

“I am dying; you’re cold; don’t care; you’ll be sorry,” groans Aquileno.

Doug: “Whaa you waiting for?”

“Ah! Ah! Stop this rubbish please. Don’t talk of death. Life has a perverted sense of humor,” I say.

Devin: “Did Havana tell you why she is here?”

“Noooo: Fidelita, you dying yet you sure polish off the soup, and stew,” I say.

“Her last meal maybe,” Doug remarks.

Devin: “You ever hear someone getting AIDS from a blow/hand job?”

Patrick: “Aqui did you swallow the cum? Yummy! Don’t lie I can tell you did, (smiling at Devin and Doug); lips blotched. Looks like Kaposi’s Sarcoma to me.”

Aquileno: “You feel that way too, OMG?!”

Devin: “Miss Havana swears she got K.S and night sweats.” 

Aquileno: “You’re just as mean as the cute intern: Know what he asks just now? Do I prefer a basket casket or metal urn for my remains?”

                              THIS IS WHAT I MEAN

 Dr. Keenes, the podiatrist, tests my blood.

“Why?” I ask him.

“I am checking your triglycerides. This could account for the blisters on your feet and lips.”  He goes on. “If your rbc’s are low, as I suspect, it could also cause ‘atypical anemia’, a possible fatal condition.”

Early Monday morning, my physician, Dr. Malik, evaluates Dr. Keenes’ reports.  “Were your rbc’s below zero, it could be serious. Your range suggests eating more ‘greens’/proteins, increasing your sodium, replacing lost electrolytes. Stop worrying! It’s not K.S. See you in 3 months. Use protection more and fret less,” he recommends.

Chilling at home, I go to work early Tuesday morning.

                             UNINTENDED “ADIEUS”!

The summers of life, interred in yesterdays, rush slowly by, sheepishly regurgitating with wry verisimilitude absconding acquaintances, buddies, co-workers. Associates once pleasing, are remembered as, ‘I Wonder Lonely as a Cloud’. *

To  Aquileno, Devin, Douglas, Michael, etc., I tip the diadem.

* Wordsworth, William – I WONDER LONELY AS A CLOUD.

Epatrickharding(rufusheap) 2009.