Last night. Two shows back to back. An evening with Air Supply. I needed insulin by the end of the second show, it was that sugary sweet and feel-good. How in the world our on crack bookers decided to follow that with Masta Killa on the same night is absolutely beyond me, but there you have it. Fortunately for me I was excused from the mayhem as I was scheduled to open and work the day shift today. So in hindsight it probably wasn't the best idea for me to agree to meet The Hellcat (who had eagerly joined in for the sappy goodness that was Air Supply) for cocktails at the scene of my old crimes, but after insuring that a chance and unwanted meeting with Jabba The Drunk (That's a looooong way back to link but I'll try.) wouldn't occur, we were on for cocktails at The Clownhouse.
Now the last time we attempted to visit our old friends, after splitting two bottles of wine on the Great Lawn during a philharmonic concert, it ended badly. I remember shots flowing freely, well, remember is an exaggeration. I was told after the fact. All I know is I went from the club to the next day as one continuous memory. I was out talking and the very next memory is when I awoke the next morning. I was feeling bad about my adventure with extreme drinking 'till I managed to touch base with The Hellcat later that day. Somehow after we got separated, or rather, I got drunk and up and left, he somehow made it back down to the castle high atop Second Avenue. Trouble was, he left his bag with house keys at the Botoxed Frownhouse. It was after 5am and I wouldn't hear the buzzer and The Ex is more than a titch deef. So he plopped down on the front stoop to ponder his fate. Whereupon he fell fast asleep. Only to be awakened by the neighbors' dog, down for his morning pissoir, excitedly licking his face. Said naighbor was attached to said dog and offered assistance which The Hellcat happily accepted. By now it was close enough to his actual morning time that The Hellcat managed to roust The Ex and shuffle off to some non-cement shut-eye. My working theory is we got slipped a mickey. The alternative being we're boistrous, overgrown fratboys.
At any rate, I was determined to enjoy a couple cocktails and toddle on home. The Hellcat ordering up shots of my old buddy Jose to begin the evening notwithstanding. I must say, extreme drinking-wise I did OK. I remember all that was said and done. We managed to excuse ourselves after 3am but well before last call, buzzed, only a $20 spot poorer (love that) and brimming with confidence or liquor fueled bravado (pick one) that four to five hours of sleep would more than suffice. It was not without a touch of horror that I was awakened by The Hellcat (no, not licking my face), explaining that the maddening noise that was annoying me was actually the alarm clock going off the past 20 minutes and I was about to be running quite late. I dutifully put back on all the clothes I had shed four hours ago right down to the underwear. I made a pot of coffee and gulped down a cup as I rinsed off in the sink. It was the start of a magical day.
I did arrive at work somewhere in the neighborhood of a half-hour late. Late being a relative term in the morning, as I see no real correlation between arriving at 10 or 10:30 when all you do is open the safe and give out banks and make a list of who is working. It's not a challenge to get it done in plenty of time. Still my boss would disagree and considering she was on the premises due to the fact that her production company was running the show this afternoon, she took it upon herself to start my day for me. For the record, I was still drunk. The first clue being when I got on the ground to unlock the front door and just laid there for a few minutes, making unfunny jokes to the retail girl. It seeemed like a good idea at the time. Still, I managed a modicum of decorum and felt rather confidently that the day would proceed as expected. That's about when I realized I had come to work without my medication. Noon was approaching and it was time for the kool-aid. I had left it in the fridge at home. I'd been on the god-damned pills just over a week and I was about to miss a dose already. Fan-fucking-tastic. This in addition to the day last week when I woke up and couldn't remember if I had taken meds the night before or just meant to and forgot. Turns out I did it and forgot. Taking medication twice a day every day is a little bit harder than I expected. There are no consequences if I miss a dose of anything else prescribed for me daily. Until now. Now I could develop resistance. Now if I let the level of medication in my blood stream get too low, it won't work anymore. The viral killing field in my system will be devoid of soldiers on horseback.
I was unsure what to do. Finally, after much debate, I approached my boss.
"Um, I take some medication. Every day. And I forgot it at home. And I think I need to run home and get it."
She made that face people make when your distress somehow pains them.
"Can't you send somebody? Send (the hostess)."
And at first, I considered it. I really did. I even approached one of my employees and told her I was sending her to my apartment.
But before that I dialed my home. Hoping against hope that The Ex would be up before noon or that The Hellcat hadn't gone back to bed. I was disappointed on both fronts. And the reality of this undertaking began to sink in. You can't just hop on a subway and pop over to my apartment. I live in that no man's land section of Manhattan that isn't really serviced by the subway. You have to take a train near my apartment and then walk the final 15 minutes. That's true no matter what station you select. So whoever did this would have to take the subway, figure out what was the correct direction to my house and then walk there. Then walk up five flights to my apartment. Then go to my refrigerator and get my HIV meds. Being careful to get the correct HIV meds, as The Hellcat and I store our Kool Aid on the same shelf. Ain't that cute? And then someone would have to go in my room. And determine which of the four pill bottles they discovered there was the right one and not the Viagra. Then back out the door and down the stairs and to the subway and back to work. And still, I thought it might work. I called The Hellcat and left a message, explaining what was happening. And as the words were leaving my lips I knew it wouldn't work. So I interrupted myself.
"Fuck it, I'm coming home. Never mind."
And I went to my door staff and said exactly that.
"I forgot some medication that I need and I'm running home to get it. I shouldn't be gone more than an hour."
They promised to handle whatever came up and really, we all acknowledged, what really could happen as we were loading an audience for a children's puppet show that has never drawn more than 100 adults and children.
So that's what I did. I went home. I got my medication. I changed into a pair of black jeans for good measure. I returned to the club. The puppet show had begun. All without incident. At least, that's how it seemed to me.
It wasn't until at the end of my shift that my boss confided she had to speak with me. I assumed the worst because the worst keeps happening these days. I imagined she wanted to fire me. Or send me to another club. A whole host of awful scenarios ran through my head all at once. Curiously, it hadn't occurred to me that my unexpected absence was an issue.
"I need to ask you... it's a personal question but I need to ask you, what medication are you taking that you had to get?"
And there it was. Left or right. Blue shirt or brown? Make a choice. I barely hesitated. I guess too much has happened for me to back away now.
"I'm HIV positive." Her eyes widened. She hadn't expected that. I continued,
"It's OK, I've been positive all along it's just that until recently I've been maintaining with diet and vitamins. But that's not working anymore and now I'm on more powerful medication and I have to take it and I can't really miss a dose or I could develop resistance."
And there it was on the desk between us. My reality. My struggle. My war. My little war. And the implication that it takes precedence over a ridiculous puppet show that 35 people are coming to. Which of course, it does, although she's loath to admit it.
"Well of course, if it's serious about your health, I'm not unreasonable. I mean, if it's your life, I mean of course...." she trailed off before recovering enough to turn the conversation onto my other shortcomings as a nightclub manager. A subject I know all too well about, as well. We were back on common ground.
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