Fiat—piece of shit that it was. I never drove
anything but garbage and unmarkeds. Now we tool around in that Porsche like a
pair of coke dealers. And the house—no way I could ever have had a place like
that on my salary. He goes shopping at Carrols or Giorgio, picks me up a shirt
or tie. I’m not a—kept man, but my lifestyle has changed. For the better, but
that hasn’t made it easy to accept. Surgeons make more than cops, always have,
always will, and I’ve finally accommodated myself to it. Makes you stop and
think about what women go through, huh?”
“Yup.” I wondered if Robin had been faced with the
type of adjustment he’d described. Had there been a struggle that I’d been too
insensitive to notice?
“In the long run,” he said, “it’s better if both
parties feel like adults, don’t you think?”
“What I think, Milo, is that you’re an amazing guy.”
He hid his embarrassment behind the menu. “If I remember
correctly the ice cream is good, right?”
“Right.”
Over dessert he had me tell him more about Woody Swope
and childhood cancer. He was shocked, like most people, that it was the second
most common cause of death in children; only accidents kill more.
The mechanics of the Laminar Airflow rooms
particularly fascinated him and he asked me detailed, analytical questions
until my fund of answers was exhausted.
“Months in that plastic box,” he said, troubled. “And
they don’t freak out?”
“Not if it’s handled right. You’ve got to orient the
child to time and space, encourage the family to spend as much time there as
possible. You sterilize favorite toys and clothes and bring them in, provide
lots of stimulation. The key is to minimize the difference between home and
hospital—there’s always going to be some, but you can buffer it.”
“Interesting. You know what I’m flashing on, don’t
you?”
“What’s that?”
“AIDS. Same principle, right? Lowered resistance to
infection.”
“Similar but not identical,” I said. “The laminar
airflow filters out bacteria and fungi in order to protect the kids during
treatment. But the loss of immunity is temporary—after chemotherapy’s over,
their systems rebound. AIDS is permanent and AIDS victims have other problems—Kaposi’s
Sarcoma, viral infections. The modules might protect them for a while, but not
indefinitely.”
“Yeah, but you gotta admit, it’s a hell of an image:
Santa Monica Boulevard lined with thousands of plastic cubes, each one with
some poor guy wasting away inside. You could charge admission, raise enough
money to find a cure.”
He let out a bitter laugh.
“The wages of sin,” he shook his head. “Enough to make
you a Puritan. I hear the horror stories and thank God I’m monogamous. Rick’s
been fielding a lot of shit from both sides. Last week a patient came to the
E.R. with a mangled arm—bar fight—and glommed onto the fact that Rick was gay.
Probably a paranoid guess, because Rick doesn’t exactly swish, but he didn’t
deny it when this turkey demanded to know if they were giving him a faggot
doctor. The guy refused to let Rick touch him, screamed about AIDS—no matter
that he’s bleeding all over the place. So Rick walked away. But the rest of the
docs were up to their elbows in shit—Saturday night and they were wheeling ’em
in one after the other. It threw the whole system out of whack. Everyone ended
up getting pissed at Rick. He was a goddamn leper for the rest of the shift.”
“Poor guy.”
“Poor guy is right. The man was top of his class,
chief resident at Stanford, and he’s taking this kind of crap? He came home in
a dark mood. The hell of it is, night before, he was telling me that working with gay patients—especially the ones who came in bleeding—was
making him antsy. I did heavy-duty therapy that night, Alex.”
He spooned the last bit of ice cream into his mouth.
“Heavy-duty,” he repeated and brushed the hair out of
his eyes. “But hey,
anything but garbage and unmarkeds. Now we tool around in that Porsche like a
pair of coke dealers. And the house—no way I could ever have had a place like
that on my salary. He goes shopping at Carrols or Giorgio, picks me up a shirt
or tie. I’m not a—kept man, but my lifestyle has changed. For the better, but
that hasn’t made it easy to accept. Surgeons make more than cops, always have,
always will, and I’ve finally accommodated myself to it. Makes you stop and
think about what women go through, huh?”
“Yup.” I wondered if Robin had been faced with the
type of adjustment he’d described. Had there been a struggle that I’d been too
insensitive to notice?
“In the long run,” he said, “it’s better if both
parties feel like adults, don’t you think?”
“What I think, Milo, is that you’re an amazing guy.”
He hid his embarrassment behind the menu. “If I remember
correctly the ice cream is good, right?”
“Right.”
Over dessert he had me tell him more about Woody Swope
and childhood cancer. He was shocked, like most people, that it was the second
most common cause of death in children; only accidents kill more.
The mechanics of the Laminar Airflow rooms
particularly fascinated him and he asked me detailed, analytical questions
until my fund of answers was exhausted.
“Months in that plastic box,” he said, troubled. “And
they don’t freak out?”
“Not if it’s handled right. You’ve got to orient the
child to time and space, encourage the family to spend as much time there as
possible. You sterilize favorite toys and clothes and bring them in, provide
lots of stimulation. The key is to minimize the difference between home and
hospital—there’s always going to be some, but you can buffer it.”
“Interesting. You know what I’m flashing on, don’t
you?”
“What’s that?”
“AIDS. Same principle, right? Lowered resistance to
infection.”
“Similar but not identical,” I said. “The laminar
airflow filters out bacteria and fungi in order to protect the kids during
treatment. But the loss of immunity is temporary—after chemotherapy’s over,
their systems rebound. AIDS is permanent and AIDS victims have other problems—Kaposi’s
Sarcoma, viral infections. The modules might protect them for a while, but not
indefinitely.”
“Yeah, but you gotta admit, it’s a hell of an image:
Santa Monica Boulevard lined with thousands of plastic cubes, each one with
some poor guy wasting away inside. You could charge admission, raise enough
money to find a cure.”
He let out a bitter laugh.
“The wages of sin,” he shook his head. “Enough to make
you a Puritan. I hear the horror stories and thank God I’m monogamous. Rick’s
been fielding a lot of shit from both sides. Last week a patient came to the
E.R. with a mangled arm—bar fight—and glommed onto the fact that Rick was gay.
Probably a paranoid guess, because Rick doesn’t exactly swish, but he didn’t
deny it when this turkey demanded to know if they were giving him a faggot
doctor. The guy refused to let Rick touch him, screamed about AIDS—no matter
that he’s bleeding all over the place. So Rick walked away. But the rest of the
docs were up to their elbows in shit—Saturday night and they were wheeling ’em
in one after the other. It threw the whole system out of whack. Everyone ended
up getting pissed at Rick. He was a goddamn leper for the rest of the shift.”
“Poor guy.”
“Poor guy is right. The man was top of his class,
chief resident at Stanford, and he’s taking this kind of crap? He came home in
a dark mood. The hell of it is, night before, he was telling me that working with gay patients—especially the ones who came in bleeding—was
making him antsy. I did heavy-duty therapy that night, Alex.”
He spooned the last bit of ice cream into his mouth.
“Heavy-duty,” he repeated and brushed the hair out of
his eyes. “But hey,
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