Page 89 of Like a Love Story
People are chanting, demanding changes to the underrepresentation of women and people of color in clinical trials, demanding more and better treatment for all the opportunistic infections that come with AIDS.
The police are standing on guard, ready to make arrests, ready to pin people to the ground, handcuff them, silence them.
Activists lie down on the lawn, another die-in, their limp bodies a stark contrast to the lush green grass, glimmering in the springtime sun.
Other activists choose a more physical approach, using each other’s hands to springboard onto the concrete of the building, literally becoming one with the structure as they chant.
Health Care Is a Right.
We’re Fired Up.
Act Up, Fight AIDS.
NIH workers exit the building. They attempt to engage with protesters. Words are exchanged, loudly, passionately. Activists plead with them. So many people are screaming that I can only hear pieces of what each is saying.
“... killing us. It’s toxic...”
“... BETTER DRUGS NOW...”
“... opportunistic infections...”
“... BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS...”
Jimmy gets in the face of an NIH suit. “And people of color? We’re getting infected and dying at disproportionate rates, but where are we in your trials? Do our bodies not matter to you? DOES MY LIFE NOT MATTER TO YOU?”
A group of activists blows horns in unison. They blow a horn every twelve minutes, because that’s how often someone dies of AIDS in this country.
Jimmy is still screaming at the NIH suit when a police officer approaches. The moment the policeman gets close to him, Jimmy goes limp, allowing himself to be cuffed and pulled away.
“Jimmy!” Mrs. Bowman screams.
“Art, take my picture,” Jimmy yells. “Stephen wants to see everything.”
I take his picture as he’s pulled away, and it’s horrible and beautiful all at the same time. I photograph it all, each frame so full of action. I snap Reza, his beautiful face surrounded by red, yellow, and green smoke bombs. I snap Judy, holding her sign that now reads DEAD FROM HOMOPHOBIA, the PHOBIA written in her mom’s handwriting. Judy holds the sign high up in the air, and Mrs. Bowman’s arm is draped proudly and protectively around her daughter. I snap it all, until I have no film left, until the protest is over.
We are not arrested, and Jimmy isn’t held long. Mrs. Bowman says there’s room for us in the car she rented, and so we all cram in. Mrs. Bowman says the car has a CD player and asks if any of us have some CDs with us. Reza pullsLike a Prayerfrom his Discman and hands it to her. On the way back to New York, we all sing along together, reliving the concert. WhenLike a Prayerends, Reza pulls outTrue Blue, and we listen to that, singing extra loud during “Jimmy, Jimmy,” and staring ahead in silence during “Live to Tell.” By the time we reach the rental car place, Mrs. Bowman knows all the lyrics.
It’s not time to say goodbye yet, though. First, we must go visit Stephen. “Should we take a cab downtown?” Mrs. Bowman asks.
“He’s in the hospital,” Jimmy says.
“I thought you said he was back home,” Mrs. Bowman says.
“He made me say it, Bonnie. He knew you wouldn’t go if you realized he was still in there.” Jimmy’s eyes are full of remorse. He hated lying. “It was important to him that we all took this trip. I promised him we would. And he wanted you there, Bonnie. He wanted you to experience it all.”
Mrs. Bowman nods. “Let’s go,” she says urgently.
We head to the hospital together, and when I see Stephen, it’s like my body splits into a million pieces. He looks like he has aged a decade in the last few days. He’s thinner, paler, the life almost drained from his eyes. The machines and tubes around him and inside him seem to be working overtime to keep him breathing, and those breaths, every single one of them sounds like it’s moving a mountain. He croaks out a “Hey” when he sees us. No one says anything. He looks over at Judy, me, and Reza and smiles. “You’re friends... again,” he says, his voice so weak that I wish one of those medical machines had a volume dial to bring his voice back up to its normal tone.
“Stephen,” Mrs. Bowman says, taking his hand in hers, “how could you tell Jimmy to lie to us?”
“Look at me,” Stephen says. “Are you really going to... pick this moment to give me... one of your lectures?” He struggles to finish the sentence.
Mrs. Bowman shakes her head. “No, of course not. I just want to be with you.”
“I want you... with me, too,” he says. “You andJudy... stay with me... until I go.”
“Oh, Uncle Stephen,” Judy says, rushing to his side. “I’ll sleep right here on the floor. I won’t leave the hospital if you want me here.”
