He sits in the darkness of his  room, not because he is depressed or lonely, (and not because I want to write a story that begins with darkness,
and not because I am lonely as a writer,
it is because I am writing about him whose name is Gay Mature,
who is tonight sitting in the darkness of his room,
and I don't want anybody associating that with some melancholy or sad feeling,
take it as it is,)
Gay Mature is simply sitting in the darkness of his room, period - He is thinking, period - He thinks well in the darkness. Something is different, he whispers to himself. He feels like living in a dreamworld. He pulls himself back to reality by turning on his cd player and Gloria Gaynor starts singing.

He dreams he is dancing in Broadway or Grammy's, and  because it is dark, he cannot help himself but dance in the dark until he gets exhausted with Gloria Gaynor's I will survive.

When the music stops, he sits back on the sofa and in the darkness. Of his room.

He replays the disco music I will survive, but he has done enough  dancing to Gloria Gaynor's song. So he doesn't dance to the music the second time. He has been dancing to I will survive since he was twelve years old. He is already thirty five years old now. His labored breathing is returning back to normal.

Still, "Something is different," he whispers to himself again.

Because it is dark inside his room, he holds the lateral end of his window curtain and peeps out to see what is outside. It is also dark outside and no one is walking by his apartment. Even if there is one passerby, I doubt if this passerby will notice Gay Mature who is looking out with his eyes exposed but his face and body  hidden behind the curtain.

And he dreams he is a China doll holding a red silk curtain which is hanging from the sky entering the temple; and he dreams he is a Kabuki actress, layers and layers of robes covering him, in a pagoda, a white veil covering his face...

He is tempted to play Puccini's Madame Butterfly in his cd player.

But he is already tired. And he stays hiding behind the curtain, remembering things that existed before on the street in front of his apartment that are no longer there. It is very quiet, he thinks, it is very quiet now on this street. This street used to be noisy. There used to be many laughters. Many jokes among men walking side by side, hand in hand. And then the happiness was shattered as they, one by one, became emaciated and fear captured the glow in their eyes. Ah they were beautiful young boys. No longer here.

He imagines himself a fairy godmother who is resurrecting every gay man who died.

But he is tired. And  he remembers  when he attended a seminar dealing with AIDS in Broward. And one gay, so thin and so emaciated just burst in front of the speaker and he screamed, his veins bulging around his neck: You sons of bitches - all you do is talk talk talk talk, while we die die die die.

They used to be young and they walked on the street in front of his apartment. They had youthful voices and they sang and danced and partied like there was no tomorrow. Indeed, their tomorrows ended sooner than expected. Who is left but  him, Gay Mature, who stands behind the curtain of his apartment, peeking outside in the darkness as he imagines the passersby who are now gone  still passing by his apartment. He does not see the black cat and the slow gliding of dried leaves under yellow lamp posts. All he does is dream he dances to I will survive by Gloria Gaynor, dream he is  a China doll and a Kabuki actress, dream he is a bonafide fairy godmother.

But he is tired. He is tired because this morning he had a patient whom he needed to help get up. The old man was barely out of bed when he started pooping all over the bed, all over the floor. Since no one was there to help them both, Gay Mature, remained firm and held the old man standing as the man's poop kept pouring on the floor, on Gay Mature's  shoes, on his white pants.  Yet Gay Mature remained standing, not giving up, because if he lets go of this poor man, the man would fall on the floor and may break a bone.

He doesn't want the old man fall because the man has fallen once as a boy, he is a survivor of something more frightening than what killed Gay Mature's friends.

The old man bears a number on his forearm, he speaks German but is very fluent in Hebrew. The old man bears in his eyes an event in World War Two...

And by keeping the man standing no matter the shit they are gathering between them, Gay Mature's spirit is soaring high.

Now he dreams he is Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
 
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