The fudge packer

As I sat next to him, watching his life bleed out of him, thoughts of our first encounter came flooding back. That night, that smile is all I could think about. Even then I knew that this would be inevitable; the day when I would sit by his death bed and curse the gods for forsaking me with this affliction, his affliction; our affliction. Another broken heart, another chamber of my heart that has been filled with crumbs of another soul, of another possibility. Another person that I must bury: Not figuratively, but literally, this time around. So I sit here and wonder whether on June 11, 2008, about the mistake I made. Did I make a mistake getting drunk? Did I make a mistake in falling in love? Did I make a mistake in talking, even though I was terrified, even though I thought he was ok?

His CD4’s started to decline six years after he found out. And right about the same time, I found him dancing to a house track by Chris Morales, the one that infuses meringue to a 118 to 135 bmp. It was nice to watch, he danced without a care. His presence was felt and everyone around him, from what I could gather, could only notice the energy that vibrated from his soul, like the vibrations of a small tremor, you knew that you were watching a wonder. He was not that remarkable, only that his presence was there. There was something odd about him, his eyes and his facial hair made him mysterious, coupled with his slightly pudgy exterior made him lovable. Every Italian mother’s dream, to have their son turn into this delightful creature that managed to grab the hearts of all the girls and boys, not by his looks but by his presence. So I watched and wondered and eventually it came to be that we were sneaking out to Fran’s on King to catch the midnight breakfast. There we ate and told our stories and our secrets.
And he turned me on and made me think that I could be held the way I should be held, loved the way that it was not possible. That moment could not be forgotten as my heart began to break, before I even fell in love. I knew then that he would leave, he would leave me and go, way before his time. So I ask, can you really fall in love with someone who has already broken your heart?

Two days later, I could not work, could not think; I could only muse about was his smell and the memory of sleeping with him that night. So that’s where it began, five years ago on that suicide bridge between Broadview and Castle Frank. As the sweat poured down my back, infusing into my MCE backpack, thoughts of ending it began. I knew, I had the premonitions then, I knew what was to come. As I walked high above the DVP, the steal wires reflected the sun. They were put there I guess by the authorities, far too many tried to end it. The drop was not that high but if you did decide to take the plunge, the ground below was quite rough, undeveloped and obviously this would be the killer, compounded with the impact.

As I contemplated my fate; I could think only about was the possibility of being with someone that would make me feel special. The things that I have been looking for was about to be staring at me in the face in a few days. Could I let this go, because he was a carrier? One wrong move, one lustful mistake could be the end of my life. The life that I had constructed so delicately; with so much effort and hard work. Only to be decimated by a ludicrously menacing illness that would rob me of everything I hold dear. That same night, as I sat in front of my mother, eating her chicken curry with bitter gourd, I could not help but disclose my feelings. I recalled how I was heart broken the year before as Manon left me with those simple words, “I think we should take a break” and the break never ended. During those days, I would sit on the sofa and just stare at the television. She would be there, most of the time and she would ask, what’s the matter my child. One day I had enough courage to tell her: manamm knowuthu amma. Those words are so hard to translate, the closest words that allow the transmission of the right sentiment would be “my heart, my feelings and my emotions hurt mom”. It is strange, the limitation of language to express the simplest sentiments. Like that, this was similar too. As we sat there and talked, I just wanted to tell her: mom, I am a fudge packer, fucking faggot and guess what, my soon to be boyfriend will die of a disease that you think only afflicts the sinners. As I began to tell her, I could not muster the truth. So I made up a story about life being hard and how a friend of mine had just discovered that her boyfriend had the disease. Even before I could finish, she said, I worry about you my child. You go around with god knows who and I just worry. Right then and there I knew the totality of the love that she had in her heart. No matter whether we happened to be the whore, the homo, the alcoholic or the domestic, she would love us unconditionally.

Standing on the cliffs of the wondrous mountain, next to the plains of Cornwall, near Lizards Point and the Atlantic made me realize that the heart and soul that I have been searching for is one that has been looking back at me. The thought of the last time I saw him, sitting on that stoop near King Street seemed so far. The Fudge Packer and his dreams of grandiose love seem to be nothing but a façade for the mediocrity that exists within. It is an attempt at trying to hide the lack of essence, the true essence that is possible.