Of ATM's, Food Emporiums, and Theories of Actual Reality
Theories of Actual Reality
Thomas B. Collins sighed loudly as he plopped down onto the subway bench. The African-American philosopher had once again been fired from New York University for his theory of actual reality. Honestly—how many times could the school board use that lame excuse?
It was all snowballing out of control now—his true (and quite possibly only) love, Angel, had died a mere two months ago. It was NYU's fault that Collins was forced to do the one thing he swore never to do in his entire life—ask Benny for help. But, had he not asked, Angel would have never gotten a funeral (he vaguely remembered speaking to Mark about the subject, "Is that any way to send a boy to meet his maker? They should have known we couldn't pay the undertaker.") which wouldn't have been right at all. In fact, Angel deserved so much more than Collins knew he could have ever given him.
"To people living with, not dying from disease…" Collins wasn't dying AIDS; he was dying without Angel.
Yes, the ever infamous Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. It had taken Angel, would one day take Roger and Mimi, and would soon claim Collins. He was an anarchist, sure, but nothing could fight this demon. Collins was worried, too—his T-cell count was at a very low 130 (the lowest it had been since his HIV progressed to AIDS five years ago,) and he was starting to get a cough. It all starts out a cough.
Cough turns to a headache turns to a cold turns to pneumonia turns to death…
…It's all actual reality.
Memories flooded back to him like water after a dam is broken. The dark, wet alley where Angel had found him after he was mugged; the fireworks reflecting off of the shower curtain which he (she) made her New Year's costume out of. One particular day he could especially remember: Christmas Day of 1989 and Angel was dressed in full drag (as he often chose to be,) wearing his flower printed skirt, chunky red pumps, and short black wig. Drag or not, his Angel was beautiful.
That day they sang and danced in the street, making a promise to each other, "With a thousand sweet kisses, I'll cover you." Collins began counting their kisses that very moment, their first kiss on Christmas Day making one. By New Year's, they were at 50; Valentine's Day, 148. May marked 574 and when July 4th rolled around, the grand total was 717. August 9th, Collins' birthday, brought the total to 843. Then, on October 20th, they were on 999.
He avoided giving Angel that last kiss. Despite the fact that Collins hated the bright hospital lights, the smell of disinfectant and peroxide, and the KS lesions that found their way onto his love's face and neck, having all of that was better than nothing at all. The philosopher knew that giving Angel the one thousandth kiss meant that he would be gone forever, and Collins right along with him. As horrible as it made him feel, Collins sometimes wished it had been him, not Angel, hooked up to those machines. He sometimes wished Angel had to feel the loss of his love and hope instead of Collins. What he could never bring himself to wish, however, was that he had never met Angel. One year, month, moment with Angel was so life changing, so beautiful, so earthshaking that it was worth all of the heartache and mourning and loss.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine on October 20th.
However, that day, the death toll became one.
Two weeks later, at the funeral, Collins put his fingers to his lips before placing them over the picture sitting upon Angel's dark, wooden coffin.
One thousand.
…It's all actual reality.