Gossip by Christopher Bram Page B

attended. “I don’t do politics but I will do food,” he’d said, and he’d worked briefly in the God’s Love kitchen when his health was good.
    The facilitator in Weimar granny glasses called for a vote. Should the Education Committee approach the cardinal’s office? When a show of hands showed no clear majority, the proposal was returned to committee for further discussion.
    “Next, Daniel Carp has asked to speak about the midterm elections in November. Okay, Dan. You have five minutes.”
    Carp, a pudgy fellow with shaggy hair, spoke loudly and to the point: The Democrats didn’t give AIDS squat but they took our votes for granted. It was time we broke their complacency by threatening to boycott the election. Without the gay vote, the Democrats would lose their shirts.
    That snapped the audience to life. A dozen hands flew up when the floor opened to discussion. An older man accused Carp of proposing political suicide. A young woman supported suicide, declaring that only when the Republicans got what they wanted would people wake up and go socialist.
    “I don’t believe this shit!”
    Nick’s voice tore into my ear as he jumped to his feet.
    “I’ve been sitting here listening! And it’s nothing but—yack yack yack yack yack!” he shouted.
    “Someone still has the floor, Nick. If you’ll sit down and raise your hand—”
    “Fuck the floor!” Nick strode up the aisle. “I don’t believe you people. You fuss over the same nothing solutions you fussed with a year ago. And you know what I say?” He faced the room. “Just do it!”
    “Do what?” someone called out.
    “Anything! If we to have to kiss ass, let’s kiss ass. If we have to kick it, let’s kick it. Why not meet with Cardinal Turd? You won’t get the time of day from him, but it’s something. And go ahead, threaten the Democrats with a boycott. Maybe you’ll find a candidate dumb enough to think we control some votes. But I have to say that idea is one more piece of passive-aggressive horseshit! All our actions are inactions! Our biggest threat is to do nothing!”
    He stood up there, a mustached Victorian boxer in a turtleneck, raking the crowd with glinting eyes. He loudly snorted his nose clear of tears. He was crying.
    “No, I’m not rational tonight. I can’t afford to be rational anymore. You people would rather be right than effective. You’d rather do nothing than the wrong thing. But I have a lover, Peter. Who has been my life for fifteen years. Many of you’ve met him. Some of you know him. Unless something radically changes, he’s going to be dead in a year or so. All right. Some of you are as sick and even sicker. To be blunt, I don’t care about you. Not in the way I care about him. But caring makes me crazy enough to try anything.”
    He spoke more wildly than I’d ever heard him before, without detachment. He couldn’t discuss death with Peter but talked about it now with a hundred acquaintances and strangers. His fury, like a public nervous breakdown, shamed me for fretting over my own petty matters.
    “All right then. Let’s be pure. Political suicide? That’ll show them. Let’s let the Republicans win. Let them get what they want. The cities gone to hell and health care down the toilet. Hey, why don’t we go all the way and work for the Republicans? Only that would mean getting our hands dirty, wouldn’t it? But this way, when it’s all in ruins, we can feel good about ourselves. Because we will’ve been pure. But Peter’ll be dead. And we will have let him die. Do you think I want to sacrifice my lover so that you assholes can feel moral?”
    “So what do you think we should do?” somebody shouted.
    “I don’t know!” He glared at the man. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “We need a stick of dynamite up the country’s ass. But you’re not the people to do it! I’ve been wasting my time with you. And I say fuck you!”
    He stormed up the aisle. He didn’t look at me as he snatched his