Having a Hope in Hell

I am staring at the phone number of the owner of the Cheer's equivalent bar. I've been staring at it for 15 minutes straight. And not calling it. I don't want to work yet. I know they only want me to work one day a week, but even that seems taxing right now. I think I'm in denial. I do have to work, but I really don't want to. But I suppose I can't play all the time. What the hell am I talking about? I play when I work. Oh, this is stupid. I should just call her. Get it over with. Start next Monday. BUT I DON'T WANT TO!! Oh, just do it. Ah, fuck! Fuck! Okay, I'll call... just a little later.


Over the weekend I was at the Cheer's equivalent bar, admittedly scoping. I was trying to make sure this was the place I wanted to work. I can't work in a place I don't believe in. Not anymore. It's too soul-leaching. I'd also really like it if I could just work with people that actually like what they do. There is nothing like seeing someone who's in the business, this business of hospitality, who is truly meant to be in it. Someone who is remarkable at service can become the single reason I will have a deep devotion to a place, visiting again and again.

Stratenger's, the fantastic bar/restaurant with the $10 smoking membership, allowing one to smoke until one can smoke no more, has a bartender who has worked there for 14 years. His name is James. He's approximately 35, decidedly Goth in styling, black ponytail that, with the humidity in the air, goes into a single Shirley Temple ringlet. James has a very noticable limp.

The first time I met James was at the Cheer's equivalent bar, with Ian, my favourite wrestling buddy, whom I sometimes make out with. I don't remember this initial meeting. Though James was allegedly very drunk, he recalls. I do recall the first time I walked into Stratenger's.

I was doing my rounds of visiting/bar hopping with my good friend Dirty. We had gone to visit Ian at the Cheer's equivalent sister restaurant. This is a place I will now only visit after dinner hour, once the Geritol set has left. I had dinner there once with my lovely friend Ryan. At one point I was saying "cock" rather loudly. Ian shushed me. I don't like being shushed. Dirty had ordered her favourite drink, a Bloody Caesar. It's like a Bloody Mary, but instead of tomato juice, it's made with Clamato juice. Clamato is a mix of tomato and clam juices. Most people outside of Canada find this combination rather disgusting. Canadians find it rather delicious. A standard Bloody Caesar is made with 1.5 oz of vodka. Ian, quite fond of Dirty, poured 5oz of liquer in her vessel. Dirty worshipped the porcelain goddess for an hour.

After fighting her for the keys to her rental car, I drove Dirty home. Heading back to retrieve my bicycle, which I'd left outside of Ian's restaurant, I remembered I'd inadvertantly left my bike's seat inside the establishment that encourages shushing. The place was deserted. Ian had mentioned he was going across the street to Stratenger's for a cocktail before heading home.

The Comrade pulls the door open and walks in. She breathes her first lungful of fully carcinogenic air. Heaven. I find Ian holding court at the bar. Ian introduces me to others. To James. James is bottomlit behind his post, the bar. His brow is primately pronounced. His large eyes are welcoming, yet sinister.

James: I'm James.... Welcome to Hell.
The Comrade: It is rather warm in here.

Fire and brimstone.

This is a preface: I am an idiot.

I was imagining all the reasons why James would limp.
He was a pawn in a mob ring where he couldn't offer up the required monthly installments. Baseball bat to the knee.
Some drunk old lady had kicked him in the shin.
Car accident.
Ski accident.
Wooden leg.
Gangrene.
Accidental firecracker explosion.
Love bite gone awry.

I asked him.

James: Cerebral Palsy.
The Comrade: That's awesome.

Curtain's close: I am an idiot. Another case of stupid shit flying out of my mouth. When will I learn? Luckily, James not only took no offence to my comment, he seemed to know exactly where I was coming from.

People who have lived with extraordinary circumstances were still at the top of their game.

There is a gentleman I know named Artillio. I met him at my old place of employ. He's in his 40's. Shaved head. Gucci eyewear. Deliberate speaker. Thoughtful. Gay. Lovely. I was outside of the Cheer's equivalent bar, smoking, as he stepped out of a cab. Both he and the cab driver were both noticably smiling. I waved to both. I love waving.

Inside, nursing my Becks beer and Americano coffee combination, I learned that Artillio has been HIV+ for 20 years. 20 Years. In those 20 years he'd cared for and subsequently buried most of his friend base. That night he told me how lucky he was.

Artillio is on the Cocktail, the multifarious and innumerable drugs dispensed to maintain levels which stave off viruses that could kill him because of his body's deficient immunity to disease. The Cocktail is saving his life, with no real adverse effects.

My ex-co-worker Gary, also HIV+, is less lucky. He has deep facial pitting and a barrel chest, symptoms often redolent in Cocktail users. Also, the combination of all these drugs often causes havoc in the gastro-intestinal system. It's not pretty. And it's very painful.

In the 70's, Gary was the prettiest one in Studio 54. Everyone wanted to have him. Or wanted to be him. One night after work, after telling him how beautiful he was, Gary had said to me,"How can you say that? Look at me! I'm a monster!"

Gary and Artillio have been friends for a very long time. They survived all the others. They cared for all the others. There were times that Artillio got tired and too depressed to continue caring, but Gary kept at him. He told him that they have a responsibility to take care of their friends. For as long as they had to. That was the thing sustaining them. Love. Buck up. Artillio bucked up.

Gary is on a particular cocktail involving him to self-administer injections into his own stomach. His monthly drug bill is $6,000.

Every month, to stay alive, he needs to pay $6,000.

I understand R&D, but $6,000/mth? To sustain life?

Who are you people? You sick pharmaceutical fucks. Medical professionals? I know you have the cure. I just know it. You've withheld this vital information because there's more money to be made if people don't think there's a cure. Millions are infected. Sure, millions can't afford $6,000/mth, especially not the Third World. But certainly a million can, say, in fat North America. Where money talks.

$6,000
x 12 months
x 1 million sufferers
x as long as those people live...

Why would they give up the secret?

Of course I don't know for sure but, judging by the state of the world these days, it's not unplausible.

Artillio was happy and smiling as he got out of the cab. He had just finished composing a eulogy for an old friend who had just died. He was quite proud of his accomplishment. The fellow in question was an 80 year old man from Estonia, who had once been shot in the head by Russian soldiers (perhaps a ricochet, certainly not point-blank), who had lived a very full and happy life.

Last night, Ian and I were between wrestles that knocked over 4L of beer and spirits during 3 separate intervals. Through massive tickle and make-out sessions, preceding a marriage proposal by him to me, Ian told me the chances of James living past the age of 50 were slim to none. His damned disease. James remarkably has zero negativity. He embraces life unlike most others. He lives completely in the moment, whenever I've seen him, anyway.

I don't know why 30 years makes that much of a difference to me, but 80, full of joy to the very end, seems like a much better year to die, I think.

[Sigh] ... I have to make a phone call now...