Every time I walk past that place on Foxeaux Street I think of him. He used to hate going to those counselling sessions.
“They tell you it’s alright, that you can still have a long life with HIV. Easy for them. They’re not the ones with shit for blood.”
I remember when we first met Fred. He came over after we moved into the apartment block, arms outstretched like brittle twigs, bearing a bottle of wine.
Damon and I invited him inside and he started rattling off these bizarre anecdotes. We liked him immediately.
He told us about his most treasured possession, a plastic hand.
It had been attached to his mother, before she died. He now kept it in his living room, encased in glass.
Damon told me later that he thought it was creepy, keeping someone’s artificial appendage on display. But I thought it was sweet. Fred explained that it had been a part of her for as long as he could remember, her most distinctive feature. The only part of her that would not rot. So why not keep it?
Straight after he told us about the plastic hand he dropped the bomb.
“I’m HIV positive.”
I looked at Damon, who was staring at the ceiling.
It’s like when someone tells you they have cancer, or that they have had an abortion. You have no idea what to say so you make this stupid, sappy face and just kind of… exhale.
“I’ve also got vaginal warts,” Fred added.
That broke the awkward silence.
“How can you have vaginal warts?” Damon asked, “You’re a man!”
Despite his eccentricities, Fred was a loveable person. His home was like his own little ecosystem, chock a block with old televisions, gramophones, records, National Geographics, a collection of golliwogs…
His wasted body would wander through the maze of items to the kitchen, where he would make tea. Setting it on the table, he would always beam. He was always happy to be doing something for you.
And when he smiled… Jesus, those teeth. They were beautifully white and straight. God knows how. He chain smoked and consumed more than twenty cups of tea a day.
He told me that. He told me everything. Including the fact that when he kissed other blokes, he liked to rub teeth.
Although it was really difficult for him to have partners if he told them he was HIV positive. The terrible thing was that sometimes he didn’t tell them. He would meet men and let them know afterwards.
For his safety, I worried because I reckoned that some people would kill him if they knew.
But it was not his intent to infect people. He was not a bad guy. It was just that he had encounters where one was the giver and one was the taker and it just…didn’t work.
They both gave in and did what they wanted to do. And then there was blood.
But to let them know that he was HIV positive via text message?
He did that to one ex boyfriend. The guy followed Fred home one night and kicked the shit out of him. Fred would not tell me whether he had infected this man or not. All I knew was that Fred had been left for dead.
He was rushed to St Vincent’s when a neighbour found him on the footpath. He had broken his collarbone, left arm and three ribs.
They discharged him fourteen days later. He came home and slit his wrist in the bathtub.
After Fred died, I started going to the group counselling sessions on Foveaux Street.
Damon thought that it was a sick curiosity on my part. But I did it because I wanted to know what Fred had felt. How could someone possibly live with HIV? I always imagined that if I were somehow infected with it, I would automatically throw myself in front of a train, or hang myself. How did these people go about their lives, knowing that there was not really a life to live? Most of them would be dead in less than fifteen years.
It was at the meetings that I heard a man tell of how he intentionally infected his wife with HIV. He had known he was infected for months and he did not tell her because he didn’t want the sex to stop.
It was then that I stopped feeling sorry for Fred. Once you can medicate HIV, it’s no longer a murder sentence. So in some part a of a man’s psyche… they just don’t care. I mean, why should you care when you’re going to die anyway? You become selfish and bitter.
I like to think that women would be better at dishing out punishment. But there are so many women who are unstable and vindictive.
But then, too many men give lenience to too many men.
I wish that Fred had not killed himself. But then again, how many others would be HIV positive now if he had not decided to do it?
“They tell you it’s alright, that you can still have a long life with HIV. Easy for them. They’re not the ones with shit for blood.”
I remember when we first met Fred. He came over after we moved into the apartment block, arms outstretched like brittle twigs, bearing a bottle of wine.
Damon and I invited him inside and he started rattling off these bizarre anecdotes. We liked him immediately.
He told us about his most treasured possession, a plastic hand.
It had been attached to his mother, before she died. He now kept it in his living room, encased in glass.
Damon told me later that he thought it was creepy, keeping someone’s artificial appendage on display. But I thought it was sweet. Fred explained that it had been a part of her for as long as he could remember, her most distinctive feature. The only part of her that would not rot. So why not keep it?
Straight after he told us about the plastic hand he dropped the bomb.
“I’m HIV positive.”
I looked at Damon, who was staring at the ceiling.
It’s like when someone tells you they have cancer, or that they have had an abortion. You have no idea what to say so you make this stupid, sappy face and just kind of… exhale.
“I’ve also got vaginal warts,” Fred added.
That broke the awkward silence.
“How can you have vaginal warts?” Damon asked, “You’re a man!”
Despite his eccentricities, Fred was a loveable person. His home was like his own little ecosystem, chock a block with old televisions, gramophones, records, National Geographics, a collection of golliwogs…
His wasted body would wander through the maze of items to the kitchen, where he would make tea. Setting it on the table, he would always beam. He was always happy to be doing something for you.
And when he smiled… Jesus, those teeth. They were beautifully white and straight. God knows how. He chain smoked and consumed more than twenty cups of tea a day.
He told me that. He told me everything. Including the fact that when he kissed other blokes, he liked to rub teeth.
Although it was really difficult for him to have partners if he told them he was HIV positive. The terrible thing was that sometimes he didn’t tell them. He would meet men and let them know afterwards.
For his safety, I worried because I reckoned that some people would kill him if they knew.
But it was not his intent to infect people. He was not a bad guy. It was just that he had encounters where one was the giver and one was the taker and it just…didn’t work.
They both gave in and did what they wanted to do. And then there was blood.
But to let them know that he was HIV positive via text message?
He did that to one ex boyfriend. The guy followed Fred home one night and kicked the shit out of him. Fred would not tell me whether he had infected this man or not. All I knew was that Fred had been left for dead.
He was rushed to St Vincent’s when a neighbour found him on the footpath. He had broken his collarbone, left arm and three ribs.
They discharged him fourteen days later. He came home and slit his wrist in the bathtub.
After Fred died, I started going to the group counselling sessions on Foveaux Street.
Damon thought that it was a sick curiosity on my part. But I did it because I wanted to know what Fred had felt. How could someone possibly live with HIV? I always imagined that if I were somehow infected with it, I would automatically throw myself in front of a train, or hang myself. How did these people go about their lives, knowing that there was not really a life to live? Most of them would be dead in less than fifteen years.
It was at the meetings that I heard a man tell of how he intentionally infected his wife with HIV. He had known he was infected for months and he did not tell her because he didn’t want the sex to stop.
It was then that I stopped feeling sorry for Fred. Once you can medicate HIV, it’s no longer a murder sentence. So in some part a of a man’s psyche… they just don’t care. I mean, why should you care when you’re going to die anyway? You become selfish and bitter.
I like to think that women would be better at dishing out punishment. But there are so many women who are unstable and vindictive.
But then, too many men give lenience to too many men.
I wish that Fred had not killed himself. But then again, how many others would be HIV positive now if he had not decided to do it?
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