A Wider Lens

by Carol Caruso

As the car swerved toward the sidewalk, Phil was relieved that it wasn’t full of pedestrians. In his inebriated state, the thought seemed logical, but of course there were few people out and about at three a.m.

His next thought was his father’s rage when he learned his car was totaled with the new camera he just got for his twenty-second birthday in the backseat.

Only then did Phil consider the damage this crash would inflict on his body.

It happened in slow motion.

The sound of screeching tires, the smell of burning rubber, the shattering glass as it came toward his face, and the ear-piercing scream of twisting metal. The impact sobered him up, just before it knocked him unconscious.

When he finally opened his eyes, it was too bright. He was unsure of his whereabouts or what happened until he heard a beeping noise and smelled the familiar antiseptic scent of a hospital room.

“Glad to see you’re still alive.” His father sat at his hospital bedside. “As soon as you get out of here, Uncle John will be inviting you to join his AA group. It is my hope that you will accept the invitation. We also will be formulating a payment plan for the car you wrecked.”

‍ ‍Thanks, Dad. I love you too. Phil didn’t verbalize his snarky thought. It wasn’t just the fact that he couldn’t; he knew better.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” he said softly.

“You should be.”

Phil knew deep down that his drinking had become out of hand and almost felt relieved after being called out and having to address it.

Almost.

In the three days he remained in the hospital, no one asked where he was. The question, “Where were you before you got behind the wheel?” would, if answered honestly, reveal what he was hiding. If his father knew where he was, the wrecked car and the damaged camera would be the least of his dissatisfaction.

On September 3rd, 1985, Phil was deemed well enough to go home, and that date would become his annual sobriety anniversary. That night he limped into the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with Uncle John and visible bruises; he drank coffee that was far too strong, met other alcoholics, and listened to their stories about how they destroyed their lives.

Wondering all the while what this turn of events would mean to his relationship with Scott.

So much had happened in the last four years.

***

“Let’s go out and celebrate the end of the semester!”

Scott unapologetically beamed with enthusiasm for life. He was the guy who knew everyone’s name and freely shared his dream of buying a big house in San Francisco one day. They sat next to each other in an introductory-level course at the local community college, sharing their passion for photography. Phil could not understand why Scott chose to befriend him when, obviously, he could have his pick of anyone in the class. It was almost as if Phil’s invisibility - his attempt to occupy as little space as possible when he entered a room - was the impetus for Scott’s flamboyant attention.

Scott invited Phil to The Saint in the summer of 1981, when Phil was eighteen and naive enough to think a fake ID could open the door to a better life.

He felt the vibration of the music before he heard it. The ceiling briefly reminded him of a class trip to the Hyden Planetarium in 7th grade, but even more fascinating were the sweaty bodies of men, freely dancing, moving, embracing, smiling, and laughing. It was more beautiful than the stars that simulated a night sky; it was a world that Phil had not believed existed, but one in which he could finally belong.

“So, what do you think?” Scott’s smile was beautiful. It was difficult to hear the words he spoke over the noise, but it didn’t matter. The message was received as the beat reverberated through each body, creating a sense of oneness.

Dancers moved in a circle around an illumined floor. Sweaty bodies glistening beneath the lights. Phil experienced something otherworldly and knew this was what he had been looking for. The music and massive dance floor were as intoxicating as the drink in his hand. It was his third in quick succession, and the liquid cloaked his invisibility, giving him a false sense of confidence.

“I love it here,” he said.

Scott grabbed him, and they joined a circle of men, just like them, on the dance floor.

From that point on, Phil and Scott became inseparable. Scott had a small flat in the Village, and Phil, still living at home, would visit him often.

He loved the way Scott whistled while he prepared scrambled eggs with just a touch of garlic powder and flailed his arms in excitement when he gossiped about the people they met at the club.

Although it was his dad who first piqued Phil’s interest in photography, it was Scott who encouraged him. He praised every photograph Phil took as if it were museum-worthy, and that made Phil want to hone his craft. Partly because he enjoyed it so much, and partly because it was the one thing that came easier to him than to Scott. Scott was a mediocre photographer, at best, but he didn’t seem to care.

***

“Why is Phil missing dinner again tonight?”

Sarah placed the mashed potatoes next to the gravy boat.

“I don’t know.” Sarah looked deflated. “I feel like I don’t even know my own son anymore. The shirt that I just took out of the laundry had glitter on it. Glitter! And it smelled strange, even after I washed it.”

“You don’t think…”

The conversation stopped abruptly when the door opened, and Phil picked up on the fact that he was being discussed.

“The potatoes look delicious, Mom. Scott’s picking me up at 6:30. I’m going to eat at his house, okay?”

Sarah smiled, and John grabbed a piece of roast. Family life was more comfortable when everyone pretended not to notice something had shifted. Their son was too old for a curfew, and too poor to move out; they began the dance that so many parents must face – allowing their adult children to mature, even when they have concerns about the path they are taking.

Then there were times when John couldn’t hold his tongue.

“Pink shirt? Really?” Without saying a word, Sarah’s expression would communicate that he should consider his judgmental language.

They learned quickly that comments like that only drove the wedge deeper.

The masquerade went on for four years before that fateful night when the phone rang to tell them their only son was driving drunk and that they should come to the hospital right away.

***

Three weeks after the accident, Phil was healing physically. He was happy to have received a clean bill of health at yesterday’s follow-up doctor’s visit.

He hadn’t heard from Scott. Not to see how he was faring, or to ask if he could stop by. Phil made the first call to rekindle their relationship.

“I’ve been worried sick about you!” Phil was relieved to hear Scott’s loving sentiment but knew his words didn’t match his actions.

They made plans to go to The Saint.

Phil may not be ready for the dance floor and was a bit afraid that the smell of alcohol might entice him, but he needed to move forward. And get out from beneath his parents’ gazing eyes. He would bring his banged-up but working camera and see the club through the lens of an outsider, a part of the gay community on the outskirts - someone who no longer drank.

Mostly, he needed to know where he stood with Scott.

***

In the weeks that followed, Phil began to believe his life was getting back on track. Navigating his new normal, Phil attempted to engage his dad in conversation.

“I’m enjoying my camera…” The phone rang. It was probably for the best. Phil wasn’t even sure what to say next when his mother called in from the kitchen.

“Phil, it’s the doctor’s office.” Sarah’s voice was the family glue that held it all together.

As Phil got up and grabbed his cane, John smiled at him. He loved his son and appreciated the attempt at connection.

Sarah handed Phil the receiver; he wrapped the cord around his wrist. “Hi, Dr. Manning.”

The ease in his doctor’s voice during the phone call did not set the stage for the before-and-after moment this call would become.

“Hi, Phil. I need to see you tomorrow about your blood work. Can you come in around two?”

It didn’t cross his mind that he might be the one infected by the gay cancer now. That happened to other people. Sure, people he knew from the club were infected, and a few died. But they were different.

“They found something in my bloodwork and need to run some more tests. Can you give me a ride tomorrow?” He was looking at his mom. Before she had time to speak, his dad, who he thought wasn’t listening, called from the other room, “I’ll take you.”

Fortunately, the appointment was during working hours.

Yes, his father was trying, but he would rather take the rusty bike he got for his tenth birthday, which was still sitting in the garage, than be alone with his father during the twenty-minute ride. Twenty minutes of either uncomfortable silence or lecturing about how he should be living his life.

***

There were tears in his eyes when Phil walked toward his mother in the waiting room, and she quietly embraced him. Her mother’s heart knew something was very wrong, but what was wrong didn’t matter as much as comforting her son at that moment.

The ride home was a release of everything Phil was holding inside. There would be no more secrets, which was a blessing and a curse. Sarah learned that her son and Scott were more than friends, and now he had the disease that was all over the news.

The one that her pastor deemed God’s revenge on homosexuality.

That night, when John arrived home from work, there was no dinner on the table. The television sat silent. The air carried a message before any words were spoken.

“What’s going on?”

John’s suspicions may have already softened the blow.

“I won’t pretend to get it, Son. It goes against everything I believe, but we are family, and I promise I’ll do my best.”

It felt like the first real thing his father ever said to him. He made a commitment, and they were a family united in a situation they didn’t want to be in. Members of a club that they never wished to join.

John walked out of the room and turned on the news, and Phil rolled his eyes at his mom.

“Give him time,” Sarah whispered.

“I have to tell Scott as soon as possible.” Once again, John spoke from the living room.

“Isn’t Scott the one who got you in the mess in the first place?”

John didn’t berate Phil; he didn’t explode; he didn’t grab his coat and run out the door, but he certainly didn’t understand the gravity of the situation.

Scott came to pick Phil up, beeped without entering, and they went to a park where they could be alone.

***

“I went to the doctor yesterday, and I have some bad news. My bloodwork was HIV positive. I’m not sure of the full implications yet, but I will keep you informed every step of the way.” He lowered his eyes before continuing. “I am so very sorry.”

“I’m positive too!” Scott’s words hung between them like stale air. His response seemed to imply their common bond was comparable to liking the same music. “I tested positive four months ago.”

The difference was that Scott kept it a secret. From everyone, including Phil and the four other men he slept with.

Phil sat silently gathering his thoughts. He saw a pigeon pecking at an unrecognizable piece of food on the ground. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t hurt. For the first time in his adult life, he felt in charge.

Scott took his hand, and they watched the bird together.

He remembered the night he brought his camera to The Saint, recording a historical point in time when a virus was killing young gay men. He didn’t crave a drink; he wanted to be completely aware of all his senses because his mission was too important not to.

“I want to photograph our journey together. Are you good with that?”

“Why not? It might be fun!” Phil smiled. Accepting Scott for exactly who he is.

As Scott’s health deteriorated, his optimism stayed intact and Phil stayed by his side.

“Your scrambled eggs suck.” Scott would tell him not to be afraid of the garlic salt, but the truth was nothing tasted right anymore.

He had just come home from Scott’s house in the Village. He set his camera bag down on the bench as if it weighed fifty pounds. The sores on Scott’s body were getting worse. They were unattractive and oozing, and Phil photographed them, assembling a portfolio of the good, the bad, and the really ugly.

He felt sad that Scott did not have family by his side. He never talked about them and why they were estranged, but Phil had his suspicions.

He went into the kitchen to find his mom making posters that read, “SILENCE=DEATH,” and he hugged her.

Phil was especially proud of the picture he took of him and Scott’s hands, intertwined with an out-of-focus IV drip in the background. He framed that one and kept it on his dresser. He took the photograph out of its frame and pasted it onto the extra poster board his mother had bought for him.

The next day, he and his mom marched side by side with other advocates, down Lexington and First.

***

Scott’s last words were, “Don’t you go dancing without me.”

Phil knew he never would. Those days were behind him.

He secretly hoped to fall in love again, but right now he was hurting.

The day Scott died was the first time Phil considered drinking again, but he didn’t. He wouldn’t. He had too much work to do. He had to remain sober and visible; in stark contrast to who he used to be. He had to bring AIDS out of the shadows, putting a human face to a horrible virus. He needed to show the world that Scott’s life mattered.

That his life mattered.

He convinced himself that he would beat this virus.

He wasn’t doing it just for Scott, or for himself; he needed to lift the veil of secrecy and shame that so many young men carried.

Phil was finally living his truth.

He was no longer John’s son, existing in a cloud of fear that he was a disappointment.

He was no longer the naive boy who fell in love with Scott, afraid to ask if the relationship was exclusive, and assuming it was.

***

For three years, Phil advocated. He was invited to speak as a panel member at his community college. He was part of an experimental drug trial, but his health was deteriorating. He could see the decline in his own self-portraits.

In the end, Phil was not afraid to die.

He was given a second chance after the accident. A chance to accept who he truly was instead of molding himself into another person’s expectation of who he should be. In the process, he created something beautiful. Something that, if the world looked at it, would recognize a community of human beings just like everyone else, seeking a place to belong.

In a strange, twisted act of fate, his diagnosis was the catalyst to eradicate his shame. He hated the virus and tried to fight it with every ounce of his being, even now. But dying wasn’t the enemy. Silence was the enemy.

Sarah held Phil’s hand as he lay, once again, in a hospital bed, because that’s what mothers do.

Sarah would take on Phil’s legacy to advocate, raise money, and build awareness for a cause that was unfamiliar, uncomfortable to talk about, and, to most, culturally incorrect.

Phil’s diagnosis was also a before-and-after moment for Sarah.

The next time anyone, even the people from her parish, dared to speak of AIDs as spiritual warfare, she would be the one who put an abrupt, uncomfortable stop to the hurtful, passive nodding in agreement.

“I think you need to educate yourself on this virus. It’s not just gay men who are HIV positive.” She would almost enjoy the awkward silence if the circumstances weren’t so dire.

She was proud of her son and all that he accomplished in his short life.

John loved his son in the only way he knew how. He took Phil’s lifeless hand in his, the one who pressed the shutter to document a culture that the world, if they took the time to look, would see as fully human.

John kissed Phil’s forehead as his only son took his last breath.