New drugs and quicker testing have reduced some of the worst
symptoms of HIV, but the gay contingent of My Generation is
still dying in droves.
I check out a bar called ‘The Transfer’ and watch a bored
stoner fan dance to old disco and move on to a bar called
The ‘Badlands’ is almost empty.
I order a beer and take a seat by the pool table to watch a
group of boys play.
They play badly and grin when they see me watching: the
handsome butch daddy with a mustache, a queen who can
play a mean game of pool.
I smile and raise my beer as an elderly drunk stumbles out
of the toilet and staggers toward the pool table.
He waves to the boys and plops himself in the seat next
“Drinkin a beer eh? Wannanother beer?” His breath stinks
of tobacco and stale beer.
I politely decline and the guy blows up; he wags his finger at
me and snaps loudly:
“Take a good look at me, Miss Thing! This is you in ten years!”
I find it noteworthy that he assumes I will still be alive.
(c) Rob Goldstein 1992-2018