Thank You - Pt. 4

As promised, unemployment does not separate me and Blanche.  On the contrary, it serves as a bonding cement.   We arrange for me to pick him up at the Queens Center Mall the very next day.  The plan is to hit the unemployment office down in Long Island City, followed by lunch out and a movie. 

Chaos reigns down at unemployment, and me and Blanche are right in our element.  They corral us into various rooms by groups.  Based on our last initials, we end up sitting side by side.  We’re wedged into little school desks. 

Blanche: “How the hell am I supposed to get my ass in this chair?  It’s made for a fucking 4-year old.”

Me: “Well, maturity-wise at least you fit.”

Blanche: “You gonna start with me in HERE, home-girl?  Do you REALLY think that’s WISE???”

He starts carrying on loudly about the obtuseness of the forms we’re supposed to fill out. I grab his pencil and fling it across the room.  He gasps in mock distress.  Everyone down at unemployment is now shushing us.  Somehow we accomplish what we need to do with instructions to come back the following week for our first check.  We skip out the door, already giddy about the necessity of next week’s outing together.

We enjoy lunch at a yummy little Italian place on Queens Boulevard.  Then we bop around the mall for awhile, mostly window-shopping and walking off our pasta and wine.  Blanche is telling me wistfully how many of the men that he ever truly loved  are closeted men who are married to women.  As we stroll arm in arm thru the mall, I can’t help but notice how many men are looking at my Blanche.  Some surreptitiously but many openly and with no small measure of yearning.  He is, of course, a beautiful young man.  But many of these dudes who are checking him out are walking with their women.  Blanche throws me a look and says: “I told you so.  Closet central.”

Time for the movies, and we could not have picked a better one had we custom-ordered it.  The Elmhurst Theatre is showing a matinee of “MR. WRONG”, starring Ellen Degeneres, pre-her own coming-out.  We sit thru this mess laughing ourselves sick and throughout most of it, Blanche cannot keep his mouth shut:  

“O noooooo – she’s kissing him????  I’m GAGGING.  Home-girl would rather be kissing their WAITRESS!” 

“Of COURSE he’s MR. WRONG – MISS THING is a fucking DYKE – they’re ALLLL MR. WRONG!”

There’s not too many people in the theatre with us at that time of day, but anybody who IS there cannot help but crack up right along with us.  Blanche’s commentary is a zillion times funnier than this movie could ever be.  He saves the film and makes it a classic.

After the movie, we stand out in front of the theatre, still laughing.   It’s very cold outside.  Blanche doesn’t live far and could walk home from here, but spontaneously I suggest picking up some beers and going back to my place.  He immediately agrees that this is ‘a SLAMMING idea’.

It’s so nice having Blanche over at my new apartment.  His presence really makes if feel like home.  My ex-husband drops off my hounds, Girlie and Lula, on his way to work.  (We have a fine arrangement where we share custody.)  The dogs and Blanche really team up quick.  We are one contented little gang o’ four - crunching on Milk Bones, swilling Coors light and talking into the night.   It’s getting late and while I’m not really bombed, I just can’t imagine traipsing around at this hour or even putting Blanche in a cab.

Me: “Blanche, stay over tonight.  That sofa folds out into a bed and I have lots of blankets.”

Blanche: “Oh, fabulous!  Absolutely, my love, thank you.”  

Me: “Great!”  I go to rustle up some bedclothes.

Blanche: “Lynn.  I want to tell you something first.”

His use of my actual name stops me in my tracks, as does the composure in his voice – the combination raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “Sure, honey.  What is it.”

He is sitting on the sofa, his hand resting on Lula’s head – she is curled up tight against him, snoring.  I sit down on the floor in front of him, beside Girlie who is stretched out at his feet, also asleep.  It feels like we should both have access to a dog right now – equal footing. I put my hand on Girlie’s belly, waiting.   Thing is, I know exactly what he is going to say before his words hit the air and I am already praying that I am wrong.

Blanche: “Love,  I’m HIV-positive.” He is watching my face guardedly.  His uncertainty of how I might react rips at my heart.

Me: “Oh, Hiram.”  Crying again. Uncontrollable tears, once more with my face in my hands.  Big help.  But my response is the only one possible. 

Blanche: “Don’t cry, honey.  I’m fine.”

Me: “When did you find out?”

Blanche: “I was diagnosed when I was 18.  But it’s probably longer than that.  I’m not sick…but…I needed to tell you.  I feel you should know.”

My stomach is turning inside-out.  All these months of my complaining to him about my bullshit-laden life.   Venting about my relationship issues.  Bitching about god-knows-what nonsense every fucking day.  And he’s been cheering me up, being my shoulder. Making me smile. Taking care of me. 

I tell him that I’m deeply ashamed of myself for being so self-centered all this time. 

Blanche shakes his head: “Honey, don’t be silly - how could you know?  Anyway, I love slogging thru your drama.  It’s like having front-row seats at a sitcom!”

He is noticeably unburdened now.  Calmer, more serene, no longer feeling like he needs to constantly be “ON”.   We are both exhausted after talking until almost dawn and I tuck him into bed as if he is my child.  Smoothing his hair back and kissing his forehead, I promise him that I’ll always be there for him, and I mean it more than I’ve ever meant anything in my life.

He smiles up at me, looking like a little boy, and says: “I know that, Blanche,” and then he falls into a deep sleep almost immediately.

I can’t sleep. I sit up until dawn in the chair across the room and watch him sleep.  Tho’ never a big praying kinda gal, it seems like now I can’t stop praying.  It seems like I’ll never stop.

To Be Continued…