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Chapter 1- Mr. Wonderful

If you had asked me years ago, about where I would be today, it wouldn’t be here. I mean I never expected to die this way. If you would have asked me years ago where I would be today, I would’ve told you that I would be have been in Italy, selling my art work to wealthy collectors and curators for much more than what it is worth.

I was in my 20’s when Jean-Michel Basquiat was alive and banging Madonna. I was a struggling artist in NYC, standing on the street trying to make a dollar the only way I knew how: By selling my art. During the 80’s the art world was reborn, and I was watching my contemporaries make millions off of crap I could do in my sleep. I wanted a piece of that pie. I knew I was talented enough. But it was all over when the monster got me.

I was in my mid-twenties when I left the city. I left to go to New Hampshire where it was quiet and I could conceive paintings and go back to New York City, once a month to sell it. I was quite content leaving the party scene in NYC; I was never much of a club kid. I smoked a little weed here and there and drank, but I never messed with needles or stuff that goes in your nose. I preferred the quiet life in New Hampshire to the bells and whistles of the big city.

It was the beginning of spring when I met him; the grass between the squares of pavement began to turn green. I met him during one of my frequent visits to the city, I was standing behind my card board table smoking a joint on the corner of west fourth street and Broadway selling my work and my soul, and I noticed him right away, he was tall, blond, and sharp looking, he was the type of guy you may see in a Reagan convention not the type that hunt the streets of the east village in search of strange art and even stranger artists, therefore I could not imagine him being attracted to me at all. I usually attracted other artist types; my usual was the tragic poet in filthy clothes with disheveled hair, so when he approached my table I thought he was just another paycheck. I looked at his left ring finger and there was a golden ring, he was obviously married. He was very conservative, his hair almost plastic, he wore a suit that cost about as much as my house, perfectly tailored for his lean well kept body. His eyes were icy blue with smile lines that showed wisdom and pain he was a solid decade older than me.

He was carefully fingering through canvas after canvas in my make shift gallery when he looked up at me, our eyes met and he looked at me with a childlike wonder, as if I was a god or something, “Are you the creator of all this beauty?”

“Yes, sir” I responded with a nervous smile.

“Please don’t call me sir. My name is Jack”

“Well it is great to meet you Jack, my name is Jerome” I looked down at my table and allowed his eyes to meet mine again. “Well jack, you have beautiful eyes”

He cleared his throat “Why thank you.” He grabbed a small canvas with two men in an embrace “I really love this piece. What inspired it?”

I could feel my face actually heating up because of how uncomfortable his question was. I mean this obviously married man was asking me about my tribute to my own homosexuality.

I began to laugh, “Well Jack, my inspiration is my gay pride.”

“I envy men like you.” His eyes glassed over; obviously my art had stirred something inside of him.

He took out his wallet and handed me a hundred Dollar bill. I took it graciously, and looked at his face.

“That piece is only twenty dollars, do you have a smaller bill?”

“No, it is worth much more than a hundred dollars to me. So keep the change. What I would like though is to out for drinks with you tonight. You seem like the kind of man I would like to sit down and speak to. Are you free?”

I was so shocked he was asking me out, “Yes, I am very free!” I lied. I actually had plans to catch up with friends, but I was sure they would understand.

I took out my sketchpad and scribbled my mothers’ phone number along with a quick sketch so he would remember who I was. He smiled at me and gave me his card. He was a lawyer. Jack McKarver Attorney at Law.

I cancelled my plans with my friends I told them that I met a dream today and they understood, because it had been so long since I even went out on a date. They told me to try to get laid. I said I would try my earnest best.

I met him for drinks in a sports bar; they had 6 big screen televisions playing games from all over the world. Jack decided to sit near the television playing professional wrestling. I was very pleased with his choice, I always liked the idea of men sweating and embracing in spandex.

We talked for hours, we spoke all about my dreams and goals and hopes for the future. We spoke about how difficult it was being gay in the corporate world. He had to get married to maintain his career; he had to have an escort to dinner with clients and supervisors. He was always ashamed of his feelings towards other men. So, he married his high school sweetheart, who was so blinded by his paycheck to realize that he was more interested in her brother than her. He explained that she was blind to his sexual orientation and he preferred to keep it that way. He explained that he did love her, because she was the mother of his children, but his urges were overpowering and he had no choice then to act upon them. I told him that I understood, because I did. I knew what it was like for him. There was a time that I myself hide my homosexuality. That I was embarrassed, I even had a girlfriend in college. But overtime I became an artist, and artists are allowed to be queer. I told him about how grateful I was that I was an artist and I did not envy the choices he had to make in his life . I whispered that I would gladly keep his secret longing between him and I. We stood talking at the bar until last call.

He took me early that morning to a pent house suite in the Bowery Hotel; I had never had a hotel room like this. There were mirrors everywhere, the sheets on the bed were burgundy, and felt like silk. A dozen red and white roses sat on a writing table. We got in the room and he immediately called for room service and ordered chocolate covered strawberries and cristal. I sat on the edge of the bed nervously like it was my first time not quite knowing what to expect, and not quite sure if I should initiate. I mean I wasn’t a virgin, but something about him made me feel that way. A knock at the door signaled the room service had arrived. Jack took out his wallet and casually handed the bellboy a fifty-dollar tip. He poured us both a glass of champagne. He handed me a glass of champagne and began to feed strawberries to me. He slowly put the strawberry in my mouth and I sucked the chocolate off it, then I bit down. He put his hand on the side of my face, then brought his mouth down to my neck and softly kissed my neck and licked my ear. He was driving my crazy in a good way; this wasn’t my average booty call. This man was making love to me. He kissed my mouth and I shoved my mouth on top of his a kissed him roughly.

He rubbed my face and asked “Are you in a rush? Slow down. We can take all night.”

I fell in love with him that evening. It was the most passionate sexual encounter I ever had. He kissed my ebony skin, and told me how beautiful I was. He took care of me like I was a child. He held my body close to his and whispered that he loved me. I was so shocked that a man who was so successful and so beautiful would want to be with a man like me who was struggling to keep afloat barely making enough bread to pay his rent.

We stayed together in that hotel room the rest of the weekend. He would leave to go home to check in with his family, but he would come back at various times. I was so happy to just wait for him, to wait for his warm body and his soft kisses. He took such good care of me, he was so attentive to all my needs and wants. He instinctively knew what it was I wanted to feel as soon as he opened the door.

The weekend ended as quickly as it had began, and I went back to my cabin in New Hampshire inspired to create a series of paintings reflecting my newfound love, shaking off the feeling that this weekend had been a dream and that Jack may have been a figment of my imagination created due to my lack of romance in my own lonesome existence.

When I walked in the door, I could see the blinking red light on my answering machine, wishing it was him. Holding my breathe I pressed play.

It was Jack “Jerome, I wanted to call you to let you know how much this weekend meant to me. I wanted to tell you that I need to see you again, you made me feel reborn. From now on call me at my office when you want to come to New York. I will arrange a chauffeur to pick you up door to door. I do not want to see you riding a bus. You are too good for that.” My heart dropped a beat. I was in love!

Chapter 2

He and I quickly fell in love, and he made good on his promise. Every time I came to New York, he would send a car, book a penthouse in different hotel rooms and spend time with me, watching movies, talking, and making love. I knew he went home to his wife, I knew he had intercourse with her. But I also knew when he made love to her, he was fantasizing about me. He told me she could never make him feel the way I made him feel. She could never make him moan the way I made him moan, in pain and in ecstasy all at once. She couldn’t do that. He told me that every weekend he told her he was going out of town on business, and every weekend she believed him. Looking back on it now, I don’t think she believed him, I think that she wanted so much to believe him that she accepted it.

An entire year went by in an instant, and every Friday afternoon he would send a car to my cabin in New Hampshire. Every weekend we had a secret rendezvous. Our love was explosive. Twenty-four of the 48 hours we spent together, we spent naked and tangled in each others arms. Twelve of the 48 hours we spent sleeping. The rest of our time was spent talking about our lives. He told me how stressful his career was, how blind his wife was, and how indifferent he was becoming towards her.

Every weekend, he loved me, and I loved him. I stayed faithful although we were apart for five days out of the week. I loved him. I did not want other men, only him. Deep in my soul I knew he would never leave his wife for fear of losing his career. I knew this, but I did not want to believe.

One Friday I sat looking out of my window waiting for the car. It never showed. This was not like Jack. I began to nervously pace my cabin. It was eight o’clock; the car was already five hours late. I had the phone number for his house. But I stood with the phone receiver in my hand for a good ten minutes before I called.
“Hello?” a woman answered.
“ummm…. Good evening. May I please speak to Jack?”
“No, he is not feeling well.” She sounded almost angry. "Who is this?”
“Ummm…. Tell him.” Click. I hung up.

Okay, he was sick. That made sense.

I called his office that Monday, and his secretary said he was unavailable.
The following Friday, I got ready again. I waited in my window, with some luggage next to my legs. Again the car did not show. Again I tried to call his house. This time no one answered.

Saturday morning I went to the bus station and bought a ticket to New York. Instead of seeing Jack I visited my mother and my friends. I knew where he lived, but I was scared to visit. My friends finally convinced me.

I got to his house on Amsterdam Ave and stood in front of his door for what felt like an eternity before I rang the bell. A woman in white wearing a surgical mask came to the door.

She pulled down her mask, and asked, “How may I help you?” Her tone was one of wary indifference.
“Is Jack available?” I asked nervously.

“Mr. McKarver is very sick, and he can not have any visitors.”

“Please tell him I'm here, and I am not leaving, I have to see him. It is very important.”

She looked at me like I was crazy. I couldn't blame her: A young black man standing on the steps outside a beautiful brownstone on the upper west side, insisting that he speak to her wealthy employer.

I don’t know where my courage came from; I don’t know how I found myself demanding to see him.

“Well, what business do you have with Mr. McKarver?”

“It’s of a personal nature. Please just let….”

I was stunned to see Jack standing behind her in a bathrobe. He pushed past her, weakly.

“Thank you Josepha, but I do have business with this young man.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come with me, Jerome.”

He brought me to his bedroom. There was at least 50 different prescription bottles scattered over his dresser. It had been less than thirty days since I last saw him, but his face had aged at least thirty years. He crawled slowly onto his bed and his robe fell open. I saw his chest. It looked as if it were caving in and there were red blotches all over. I shook my face and wiped my moist eyes, I did not except him to look like this. How come this strong man suddenly seemed so small? What happened to this big man that used to cradle me like a baby? Was this a joke? I eventually broke the awkward silence.

“Why haven’t you called?” I asked firmly. Trying to keep the tears from falling out.

“I have been sick.”

“You know my fucking number, sick or not it doesn’t take much energy to pick up a god damn phone and dial my number. What’s really been going on Jack? I have been going fucking crazy! How could you do that to me!” My heart was racing and the words just poured out.

“I couldn’t face you. My wife left me and I was sure you would too.” He looked like a sad puppy. All the fat in his face was gone, so his eyes were bigger then ever.

“What? Why did she leave?” My anger was slipping away looking into his sad sorry eyes, I just wanted to understand. I wanted to know what he was going through.

“Because I got sick. I've known for many years I was sick. I knew this day was coming; the day the monster would catch me.” He kept his eyes locked at his feet. He was ashamed. I could not understand how an illness could make you feel ashamed. People get sick.

“She left 'cause you got sick? What kind of selfish bitch would do that? I would never do that.” My anger quickly re-emerged. I wanted to hug this chick and choke her at the same time. It is sad that she left him, but know Jack and I could start a life together. As soon as he get’s better.

“Yes you would, and you will.”

“No! No I wouldn’t. I would take care of you. Don’t tell me what I would do. You haven’t got the fucking right!”

“Jerome. Darling. You don’t know what you are talking about. I'm very sick right now. I'm very weak. Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you? For what? For leaving me without telling me why?”

His once piercing blue eyes, now dull with pain, looked down at the floor. He slowly raised his eyes to meet mine, then quickly looked away. He couldn’t face me. I didn't understand!!!!!!

“No, Jerome have you ever heard of auto immune deficiency syndrome?”

“No.” My heart dropped. I had never heard of that. It sounded bad. I felt my stomach churning.

He whispered softly as if that would lessen the blow “Well, that is what I have. AIDS.”

“Wait, wait, you have AIDS? AIDS?” I heard of AIDS. People died of that. I knew it wasn’t good. I looked at him and suddenly realized he was going to die, and he probably is taking me too, and his wife. His poor unsuspecting wife.

“Yes, Jerome. I have AIDS. That is why Lorrain left.”

I was hurt, I was confused, I was embarrassed. But it wasn’t because he had AIDS. I was confused because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me. I was hurt because He assumed I would leave. I was embarrassed because I did not use a condom. I loved him. I didn’t care that he had AIDS. I did not care that he probably passed it along to me. I just loved him. I loved him although he probably sentenced me to death, I still loved him.

I whispered, “Jack, you could’ve told me.” I was holding back my tears.

“Jerome, I am not feeling well. Can you get my nurse and leave.”

I leaned down and kissed him softly on his fore head.

That was the last time I saw him alive.


Chapter 3 - The Death of Jack. The Birth of Jerome.
After I left the house I went to a clinic. I knew I had contracted this new virus, at the time people did not know much about this monster. Some high profile people had gotten it and died already, but people still thought it was a disease that gay people and drug addicts got, it was a plague that god sent to kill the enemy. I got a blood test and I awaited the results, I knew I was going to be HIV positive. I knew that I did not like condoms and that was going to be the death of me. I was prepared for my death sentence. I knew that when I got Chlamydia a few years back I took some antibiotics and I was fixed. But this was a different monster.
I did not cry when the test came back positive, when I told my mother she cried, I didn’t. I took some pamphlets from the doctor and read about it. I learned that jack knew for many years he contracted the disease, he knew he was giving it to me.
When I found out Jack passed away, I prepared myself to attend his wake. I dressed in all black, I got into my car and I went. I drove fast with my radio blaring. I thought about suing his estate, he owed me. He murdered me, I deserved something. I walked into the funeral home, everyone said Jack died of a heart attack; it must have been the stress at his job. A heart attack. I saw his wife crying in the front, I saw his children; two sons they looked just like him. I wondered if they contracted the virus as well.
I must have looked strange, I must have stuck out like a sore thumb. I was you young flamboyant black man among all these white conservatives. An older woman walked up to me.
“Hello, young man. I am Jack’s mother? Were you one of Jack’s clients?”
“Um… Yeah you could say that.”
“He was such a good boy.” Her eyes were tearing “He always took on civil rights cases, he really believed in those kinds of things. He would be so happy to see you here. Did my son help you?”
“Yep. He sure did help me.”
“God always takes the ones who do the most good. He was only 45 years old, his heart just gave out. The doctors said they couldn’t help him.”
Was this lady serious? Did she really not know? Nobody told her how her son passed? No one told her son was a closet fag? My heart was hurting for her. She seemed so sweet.
“Come meet Jacky’s wife, I am sure she would love to meet you.”
This old woman grabbed my arm without hesitation, and pulled me to the front of the home.
“Lorraine, I want you to meet, um, son what is your name?”
“Jerome”
“Lorraine, Jerome I want you to meet Jerome. He was working with Jacky before he passed.”
Lorraine was worn down you can see it. Her clothes hung off her frail body. The circles beneath her eyes told so many stories. Suddenly I felt sorry for her, she probably loved Jack as much as I did. But jack was incapable of really loving her; I got the best of her husband. Not to mention that more than likely she also had the germ.
“Hello Jerome. So you knew my husband?”
“Not well ma’am, I just wanted to come and pay my respects. I am so sorry for your loss. But I must get going I have a prior engagement.”
I ran out of that funeral parlor and sat in my car in the parking lot and cried. I cried for the first time since I had seen Jack last. I rested my head against the steering wheel and felt guilty, I felt guilty for wanting to take money from his estate, and I felt guilty for having an affair with that woman’s husband and taking him from his children. I felt guilty.
Then I heard a knock on the window of my car. There stood Jack’s oldest son. He was Tall and blond just like his dad. He was maybe 18 years old. He looked angry, I opened up my window and he looked at me and said, “I know who you are, and I should kill you right here. But I do not want to hurt my mother anymore. So just leave and go somewhere. But leave me and my family alone!”
I did not say anything. I just left. I cried the whole way home. I decided that day to move back to New York and to live, I am going die anyway so why not have a good time living while I wait to die?
Chapter 3- Living fast, for I am dying young
I got myself a studio apartment in Chelsea. I did not buy any furniture; I figured I did not have much time before I got sick. AIDS is a funny disease, you don’t really feel like you have it, you know you have it but you don’t feel like you do. I’ve never been sick and not felt it. You know you get a sore throat and your throat hurts. You get a stomach virus and you get diarrhea and you vomit. AIDS doesn’t make you feel any sort of a way, you just know its their like a monster under your bed. You know it’s there, you don’t want to put your feet on the floor because your scared it will bite you it’s unavoidable.
I went for regular doctor visits and every time I went they would prescribe me more medications. One medication would be harsher than the next. I would find myself feeling sicker and sicker because of these medications that were suppose to saving my life and instead they were making my life unbearable. So I simply stopped, I stopped taking the pills that were meant to prolong my life, because by prolonging my life they were destroying it.
I began going out to the clubs every day I could. When the clubs were closed I went to the bars. I met all kinds of different characters, I had sex but always with protection and I always told my partners I was HIV positive. I started experimenting with all kinds of drugs, I was self medicating, and I don’t feel bad about that.
At the time HIV or AIDS was a death sentence, people thought that they might have a year maybe two, not twenty. Most people who were given this diagnosis got limitless credit cards and bought all the things they could not afford before. I chose to live the life I was too scared to live before, and it felt good. I was always very conservative for a black gay artist in NYC; I dressed in jeans with a button down shirt, nothing too crazy. But now, I have been given the freedom to dress crazy, the freedom to experiment and have casual sexual encounters with men and women alike. I would swing; I would use harsh drugs like cocaine to stay awake and heroin to stop the pain, I took LSD to gain creative insight and weed to mellow out.
Over time my art took a back seat to my partying. Over time I forgot why I even needed that release. Over time I forgot about my mother. Over time I forgot about my friends. Over time I forgot who Jerome used to be. All that was left was a nameless HIV patient, a nameless HIV patient who was now addicted to drugs and partying. I did not like the new Jerome.

Chapter 4- Intervention
One cold morning I woke up in the train station not far from my apartment. When I arose from the stairs of the subway, the early afternoon sun burned my eyes. I walked like a zombie to my apartment building, where an old woman was waiting for me. The old woman was sitting in an old car. The old woman ran to greet me.
“Jerome! Baby! I have been worried about you!” Her eyes were big brown and familiar.
“Jerome, where have you been? We have all been so worried.” She grabbed me and hugged me.
“Jerome, do you hear me.” She furrowed her brow.
“Jerome, baby? Are you ok?”
Finally it registered this was my mother. My mother who I forgot about. My mother who’s heart I broke when I told her I was positive. My mother who kissed my knee when I was child. My mother who loved me before and continued to love me today.
I simply broke down on the sidewalk. I fell to my knees I grabbed her thighs and held my face tightly to her body, and I cried like the little boy she knew when she was a young mother. The little boy she raised on her own. The little boy she dreamed would become a respectable man. I became that little boy again.
She lifted my frail frame up from the floor. She took me by my shoulders.
“Jerome, I am going to take you to home.”
We got into her car, and we drove through the battery tunnel into Brooklyn. It felt strange to be awake; it felt strange to sitting next to my mother. After all I left her behind. We drove for a while before anything was said.
“Jerome. I am going to cook for you when we get home. Your sister is over too.”
“Really?” my voice was shaking
“Yes, really. We’ve all been very worried about you. She came by just to see you.”
“Oh. How did she know I was coming?”
“I told her I would find you today.”
“Oh.” I knew I should’ve reacted differently. But I was tired; I only woke up in the subway a half hour before.



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