Thoreau's Rooster

Before I thought I had HIV, condoms were preferred, but optional, like choosing whether or not to wear socks with flip-flops in the breezy autumn. If one was lying on the floor, or even sitting in the change pot on the dresser on the other side of the room, awesome, I’ll go get it! If not, well, I’d think, it’s too late to turn back now…

* * *

Before I thought I had HIV, I hardly even thought about HIV. I was the guy, who wasn’t the guy, who said, “I never thought it could happen to me.” I was the exception. I transcended the poor sap, busted by a cliché from an after-school special or an educational video. I was an individual. These people—contracting HIV, downsizing into walking statistics, condemned to spending the rest of their eroding lives pretending to feel great about themselves in front of a bunch of yawning seventh graders at a school convocation—that’s what they get for making stupid decisions. I made good decisions—great decisions.
Of course it isn’t going to happen to me, I thought.

                                      *     *     *

          Before I thought I contracted HIV, I wanted anyone who wanted me—the tattooed girl from northern Indiana, who wore too much mascara, the slut from Muncie Central who sucked off fifteen dudes at her mom’s house when she was out of town, the bigger slut from two towns over, who lost her left forearm arm to gangrene after inadvertently jamming a dirty syringe full of Oxycotin into an artery, rather than the vein she was used to.
It’s too late to turn back now, I thought.

                                      *     *     *

          The morning after I thought I’d contracted HIV, I had to go in to work a nine-hour shift at my University job—where all I do is sit in front of a computer, surf the internet and think. I looked up symptoms for HIV: fatigue, night sweats, flu, strange rashes, sudden loss of appetite. I didn’t eat all day and almost fell asleep in my office chair. I was 2 for 5.

                                                *     *     *

          After I thought I’d contracted HIV, I continued to see the one-armed girl for a few weeks—“Stumpy,” a few of my friends called her. Why the hell not? After all, I saw a sick rash blasting across my foot one morning, the side of my hip was painted purple with unexplained bruises (another symptom I found in a health book from a previous semester) and I was waking up in the middle of every other night, the groove of my pillow filled with sweat. 5 for 6.

                                                *     *     *

          When I thought I had HIV, I would lick the blood every time I cut myself to see if I tasted any difference.
          More metallic, I thought, as I sat in the windowless room of my attic apartment, my cat Nigel crying in the corner, my roommate Leon yelling at something on TV in the next room.
          Do white blood cells taste like metal when they die, I wondered.

                                                *     *     *

          When I thought I had HIV, I sat in an uncomfortable chair with a syringe sticking in the crease of my right forearm.
          “It’ll be a few seconds,” the nurse told me. I asked how long the results would take.
          “Four to five days,” she said. I told her that was quicker than I expected, but that I still dreaded the four to five days—the reflective period.
          “I know exactly what you mean,” she said.

                                                *     *     *
          When I thought I had HIV, I thought about Stumpy’s promiscuity, doing math equation after inevitable math equation in my head, the numbers snowballing and rolling down a jagged peak, plummeting to the bottom. I thought about looking up HIV/AIDS tour agencies, where I could travel from school to school, talking to auditoriums full of yawning seventh graders.
          It’s too late to turn back now, I thought.

                                                *     *     *

          When I thought I had HIV, I heard two little knocks and the door to waiting room number six flew open:
“Clean as a whistle!” Dr. Cooley announced. Beams of fluorescent light glinted from his glasses and his stethoscope. My stomach leapt into my throat and I choked with delight. Did I cry? Who cares.
“Thank you,” I said, for some reason.
“Hey, I’m just the messenger,” he said, patting me on the back.

                                      *     *     *

          After I thought I had HIV, I sat on the sofa in the living room of my attic apartment. I stared at the blank television screen and twiddled my thumbs.
          Now what, I thought.