I walked to the station with a guy who told me he’d started an anti-candida diet. A naturopath on the North Shore was getting some results with people with AIDS. You got rid of all moulds and funguses in your diet. This guy had been on it for three weeks and said he felt heaps better.
Over the next couple of weeks, John and I decided to take it on. We cleared the cupboards and refilled them with almond butter, yeast-free bread and acidophilus yoghurt. We bought a book of recipes and our life became plainer. I would have killed for a Pollywaffle.
My doctor Ralph was unimpressed. ‘I don’t think it’s going to do much. It might cut down the candida but it won’t do anything for your immune system. And people usually lose weight on it, which is not good. If you can maintain your weight I’ll be happy.’ Bloody doctors! They never acknowledge anything alternative.
The workshops for Soft Targets were encouraging, the actors enthusiastic. Scenes had been rolling in thick and fast. There was a father talking to his young sons. There was the story of a woman arriving from Cootamundra because her son was sick. She’d had little contact with him since he moved to Sydney. She didn’t know he was gay, nor that he had AIDS. She had to come to terms with the fact that he was dying, and that she had to share him with his lover.
We started to play with placement, trying to get the maximum impact from the juxtapositions. We then ran the scenes for ourselves, and in the discussion afterwards the cast was bubbling as I gave notes.
Our next step was to present it to the Griffin Theatre members. The cast assembled in the theatre, some jittery but all full of expectation. I gave them a special warm-up to focus their energy. ‘A go-go class. Could everyone get into a circle? One at a time we’ll do a step to the music and the rest of us copy that.’
I put on ‘Blister In The Sun’ by the Violent Femmes. The group was hesitant at first, but then began to enjoy it, laughing at each other, blushing. It bonded us. Then followed one of those wonderful performances where the audience was totally attentive. It was a ritual broken by laughter and sniffles.
At the end of the reading, Penny Cook, chairperson of the board, leapt to her feet and others followed. As we celebrated in the foyer afterwards, Penny kept saying, ‘We’ve got to do it next year.’
The feeling that comes from acceptance of your work is the best drug I know. I was feeling exhilarated, loved, whole.
Peter Kingston, the artistic director of the company, had been away on the night of the performance. We met among the black leather jackets at the Tropicana Café. Peter was spinning the ashtray as we talked. ‘I’ve read the play and I think it’s really good, but it definitely needs work.’
I suggested we apply for development money. He said we had missed the deadlines of the major funding bodies, and he felt the piece was so important we should get it on as quickly as we could.
‘We could try getting money from an AIDS organisation.’
‘Worth a try.’ Peter took a deep breath. ‘Now, are you wanting to direct this?’
‘I’d like to.’
‘I’m not sure you have enough experience. Let’s see how things work out.’
The Bobby Goldsmith Foundation, an AIDS charity, sponsored a workshop on the understanding that they would get any future royalties. Meantime, there was some discussion about when the piece should be done. The Mardi Gras festival was to happen early in the new year and the group seemed keen on being part of it. It suddenly dawned on me that I wouldn’t be available to direct it as I would be on tour with Brighton Beach Memoirs. I think I wanted the group to postpone the project till my return.
The group voted unanimously to try to get it on during Mardi Gras. I felt like someone had ripped my baby from my arms. I was hurt by the lack of recognition of my part in getting the piece together.
The workshop was held at the Juanita Nielsen Community Centre in Woolloomooloo, a sun-drenched building full of local kids. Paul One and I came to loggerheads. His character spoke in monologue. I thought he should dramatise the story.
‘Tim, it works,’ said one of the women. ‘You get to see the charm and sense of humour of the guy.’ I pointed out that I had other ideas about the piece.
‘We’ve moved on.’ Paul was getting angry. ‘You’re not the only person who wants to do a piece about AIDS.’
My blood was boiling. The baby that had been ripped from my arms now had a boot against its head. I wanted to get out of there. At the break I asked to speak to Peter. We went for a walk through Woolloomooloo.
‘I want to leave the project. I’m finding it hard doing the show at night and the workshop during the day, and I guess the other thing I should tell you …’ I took a breath. ‘John and I have just found out that we’re positive.’ I wanted Peter to know that I wasn’t just wimping out. ‘The stress I’m feeling won’t help my health. But I’d rather that the others didn’t know. If you need to talk to someone you can talk to James Bean. He knows.’ I walked away feeling like a soldier walking out of a blown-up building.
Later that night James rang me and told me that Peter was upset. James had said to him, ‘This is why we are doing the play.’
‘Your performance is really good,’ said Veronica. Brighton Beach Memoirs was about to leave for Perth and we were sitting over a farewell cappuccino. ‘That scene where you tell your mother you’ve gambled away your wages is the best work you’ve done.’
‘I always thought my best work was playing Icee Bear at shopping malls.’
‘You didn’t! In a bear suit?’
‘The kids used to grab my balls to see if I was a boy bear or a girl bear. Ms Icee wore a tight red T-shirt and the kids would grab her tits.’ Veronica laughed loudly. ‘The advantage of wearing a large fibreglass head was that I could bring it down on their heads and give them a good whack.’
‘Do you still want to have kids?’ Veronica and I had talked about having kids together, living in two semi-detached houses – she and her girlfriend in one and John and I in the other. We talked about using a turkey baster to get her pregnant. ‘You never mention it anymore.’ I guess now is as good a time as any.
‘I don’t know how to say this. Guess I just spit it out.’ She fixed me with her gaze. ‘John and I are HIV-positive.’
‘You told me you were all right!’
‘I did and we are. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I wanted to be there. Sorry.’
She asked all kinds of questions until she started to cry quietly. She put her head in her hands and let go. I rubbed her back. ‘It’s so unfair. You guys are some of the most beautiful people I know.’
Away From Home
Perth is a young city full of suntanned, sun-bleached teenagers, and architecture no more than ten years old. On tour there I felt on top of the world. I was working, had some money in my pocket and lots of time to enjoy the sunny weather.
After the opening night’s performance there were drinks in the upstairs bar at His Majesty’s Theatre. Over a plate of sandwiches I caught the eye of a boy smiling impishly at me from under his fringe. He’d liked the play and complimented me on my performance. He introduced himself as Nordin. ‘A shortened version of Nor-el-din. My mother lived in Morocco for a while.’ He was fixing me with that smile and I started to feel he was flirting with me.
A few nights later I went dancing at a gay bar called Connections with another boy I’d met at the gym, but he disappeared with the love of his life. As I drained my beer someone blew in my ear. I turned to see Nordin. I told him what had just happened. His response: ‘Better for me.’
I was surprised. I couldn’t believe I was getting this sort of attention from beautiful boys. We caught a cab to my place. Nordin had his hand on my leg. I was finding his forwardness a little disconcerting. Is there something he wants?
I took him out on the balcony among the mozzie coils. I was nervous. Am I any good in bed? Is my body attractive? Should I tell him my status? We did the ‘getting to know you’ stuff. He was born in France, came to Austral
ia at five, and was studying physics at uni. I excused myself to go to the toilet. I looked in the mirror and tried to work out how to tell him about my status. When I came back I couldn’t see him on the balcony. He was inside on the bed, where he asked me to join him.
My heart was beating fast. ‘There’s something I feel I should tell you. I’m HIV-positive.’
‘Doesn’t mean we can’t have sex. Come here.’ I lay next to him and he kissed me gently. ‘You are so cute.’
‘So are you.’ He moved his mouth to my earlobe, biting it gently and making me goose-bumpy. Our clothes came off and we lay naked against each other, playing swords with our hard-ons. His body was suntanned and hairless. We licked each other, rubbed against each other, he sat on my back and massaged my shoulders. We then pulled each other off and as I came he twisted my nipple, increasing the intensity of my orgasm. Nordin grabbed the tissues and wiped the come off very quickly. Is he afraid? I went down on him but he didn’t go down on me. Still, it was good.
The next couple of weeks were like a shipboard romance. We went out to bars as a couple, holding hands, dancing together, and standing with our arms around each other. He kept telling me how cute I was, and what a good actor. It was nice to hear.
The night I left Perth, he came to the airport. We talked about how good it had been and how much we were going to miss each other. He even talked of coming over to Sydney later that year. Saying goodbye was difficult. I didn’t want to let go of him and when I boarded the plane I felt sad, really sad.
Our next touring date was my home town, Melbourne. The red-eye arrived at six-thirty in the morning. Standing at the exit gate was John, bleary eyed and suppressing a yawn. His face lit up. ‘Timber!’ he called. A new nickname? ‘Hi, darling.’ He rubbed my arms. ‘Neggsie asked us over for breakfast, but it’s a bit early to go round there. We could have coffee here.’ Neggsie was a friend from student theatre.
We sat at a table. ‘Did you meet anyone nice?’ I smirked and raised my eyebrows. John sat stunned. ‘I didn’t mean like that. What are you saying?’
I wanted to share my joy, to say, ‘John, he was so pretty, a French boy with an amazing smile, and we had great sex. He made me feel good.’ But I didn’t. ‘I’m sorry, I thought our agreement was that when we’re apart we could sleep with other people.’
He gasped. Tears rolled down his face. ‘I thought with this AIDS stuff that would have stopped.’ He stared out the window as if he couldn’t bear to look at me. He didn’t say much after that. It was like when Dad was angry with me as a boy – I never knew why he wouldn’t answer my questions and it made me feel bad. That’s how I felt now.
Back at Neggsie’s John sat next to me on the couch with his hand on my leg. He’s obviously not too upset. I hope he’s forgiven me. Neggsie headed off to work, telling us to make ourselves at home. I felt pooped and wanted to go and lie down.
‘I’ll come too.’
We stripped down and got under the sheet. John rolled on top of me and started kissing me intensely, reclaiming what was his. The sex was disconnected and mechanical. I started twisting his nipple. ‘Ow! What are you doing?’
‘Don’t you think it feels good?’
‘Where did you learn that? From your friend in Perth?’ He shook his head and rolled over, turning away from me. I guess I deserve this.
A couple of weeks later I was missing the attention that Nordin had given me. I had received a letter from him that started ‘Hello, spunk’ and said how much he missed me. John and I were having dinner in an Italian café in Carlton. I asked him if he loved me. ‘You know I do.’
‘Why don’t you ever tell me?’
‘Words are cheap. Can’t you see I love you?’
‘It would be nice to hear it now and then.’ I hesitated. ‘I don’t know if I want to be with you if you can’t tell me.’
‘Oh, Tim, you’re a dag. I love you.’
It wasn’t quite what I wanted, but neither was creating more of a fuss. I dropped it.
This year John’s family had returned early from the Christmas break at their Mornington Peninsula beach-house; the weather hadn’t been very good. So John and I went down to the white weatherboard cottage stumped in sandy soil, surrounded by ti-tree and couch grass.
For some time I had been asking to see photos of John as a little boy, and now he brought out his family’s projector and boxes of slides. He got out a large block of chocolate and a bottle of Fanta. He closed the curtains.
The first couple of boxes were of Christmas Island. We saw the Navy radar installation where John’s father worked, and a barbecue for all the ex-pats, with John’s mother Lois looking very stylish in her beehive hairdo, floral tank-top and shorts.
Then John as a little boy. Standing in a golf hat and a short-sleeved shirt buttoned to the neck, about to take a putt with his child-size golf club. With his brothers and their Christmas toys, proudly showing his boat. Playing footy in the backyard. And the cutest one, him in his red jumper and black shorts holding up his first communion medal.
I loved this man and I think I would have loved him as a boy. I felt cheated of the chance to see him growing up. The closest I could get was to take copies of the slides.
I stood in the wings at the Comedy Theatre on opening night, waiting to make my second-act entrance where I tell my mother that I’ve gambled away my wages. Mum and Dad were in the audience. I was slightly nervous as this was my first big role and I wanted them to be proud of me, to see that I was a good actor.
I started the breathing rhythm that suggested I was choking back tears. Then I heard my cue, braced myself and ran on. I told my brother that I’d lost my wages in a poker game and made him swear that he wouldn’t let on. Then I went up to our bedroom. My mother knocked on the door and came in.
‘Stanley, can I have five dollars for Aunt Blanche?’
‘I haven’t got it.’
‘Didn’t you get paid today?’
‘Yes, but I don’t have the money.’ But suddenly the tears were real. The shame that Stanley felt was my own feeling. How am I ever going to tell Mum and Dad that I am positive, that John and I are positive? I have failed them.
On Our Own
Soft Targets was still playing when I got back to Sydney. I’d heard good things about the production from friends, and their comments were confirmed when I saw it. Peter Kingston had taken a simple idea and found resonances in it.
The play opened with two cleaners in space suits vacuuming the set. Instantly we knew we were seeing a piece about contagion and fear.
A home-help worker talked about seeing his first client. ‘There was hardly anything to him. He was in and out of a coma. I saw this photo behind a vase and realised that I knew the person in the bed. I hadn’t seen him for a year.’ A picture of Rock Hudson came up on a screen.
The character from Cootamundra was given a sponge bath by his boyfriend. No words were exchanged but plenty was going on. When the mother entered, watched for a moment and then left without saying a word, I started to sob. There were others crying but the audience was disappointingly small. Perhaps people were afraid of what they were going to see.
The cast were glad to see me afterwards. They came over to hug me. All the smiling faces made me feel I had returned to the fold. John and I finally made the big move into a flat of our own.
I had found an old thirties place in Rose Bay with an unusual design, a hallway like a dog’s leg which was initially confusing but made the space seem bigger. I tried to explain it over the phone. ‘I trust your judgement,’ John said. I put in the application, leaning heavily on John’s professional status as a chiropractor.
On Saturday morning I took him over to see it. He seemed to like it, particularly the balcony and the wooden toilet seat. We went off to the agent and signed the lease.
Living on our own was a fabulous thing. John and I knew each other’s rhythms and so there were none of the old problems of timing. ‘We’re going to bed now, could you turn the
music off please?’ Or personal politics. Franco watching a news item on migrant health: ‘That is so racist!’ Me: ‘Why’s that racist?’ Franco: ‘I’m sick of you challenging me. I don’t expect to be challenged in my own house.’ There was an incredible freedom in being together by ourselves. We could walk around the house naked, or take a crap with the toilet door open. We could eat whatever we wanted without the pettiness of wondering, Who ate my yoghurt? We could run around like two-year-olds, talking baby talk.
In setting up our house, John was obsessive about making sure we had everything, hunting the best can opener or garlic crusher, traipsing through Bondi Junction armed with a sales catalogue as we looked for a juicer. And because he earned more than me (I was selling towels over the phone for the Guide Dog Association), he often paid for things, and never grudgingly.
At the Albion Street clinic I talked to my counsellor Mark, a big teddy bear, about the affair in Perth. Nordin had made me feel so good, telling me how much he liked me. ‘I wish John would tell me he loved me.’
‘Have you discussed it with him?’ I said I had. ‘And what does he say?’
‘ “Words are cheap. Can’t you see I love you?” I told him it’d be nice to hear it now and then.’
Mark smiled. ‘It’s a classic case of different communication systems. You use lots of auditory words. “Tell me. Nice to hear it.” John says, “Can’t you see?” He processes things differently. No doubt he shows you he loves you. Maybe all you need to do is look around and see what kinds of things he does.’
On the way home I thought about what Mark had said, and slowly the things that John did came into my head. The way his hand brushes mine as we are walking, his little finger hooks mine, our secretive version of holding hands. The smile that breaks out on his face when he sees me. His pet names for me: Conabear, honeybear, Timber, and the new one, Tim Salad, short for Tim Salad Bim. And my favourite, him playing with my hair while my head is in his lap as we watch television. I was warmed by these memories and realised that I only had to look around to see that he indeed loved me.