“We’d be pioneers. This is Oregon. Pioneers are part of our history.”
“What ‘our’ history?” said Lionel. “You’re from Ohio.”
The team became excited. It was an innovative concept— even daring for its time— to train and equip the target population to test their own people. We would provide a safe space for gay men where the counseling and testing would be done by their own “brothers.” Steve immediately left to call and propose the idea to the county’s HIV Program manager.
• • •
He came back to us the following day. I was right: bureaucrats are by nature timid. They don’t like to take risks. But they were also desperate to produce the results the feds wanted. And with his natural enthusiasm and Boy Scout wholesomeness, Steve was the perfect person to pitch the idea. If he believed in something, he could convince anyone. And he believed in this idea.
“They want to try it. They’ll build it into our contract and provide extra funding. We’ve got one year to show results. They’ve assigned their head epidemiologist to work with us. Arthur’s a gay man himself, and he supports the idea. He’ll handle the technical aspects of the training and the phlebotomy— ”
“The what?” asked Lionel.
“Blood draws. They’ll assign a phlebotomist to us who will also be a gay man. Our job is to recruit, screen and train a team of volunteers to handle the counseling part. They want this program up and running by Pride Weekend.”
Chad whistled. “That’s only three months from now.”
Steve turned to me. “I want you to coordinate this program. It was your idea.”
“I’ll get started immediately.”
But where to start? All I knew about HIV testing was from the wrong end of a needle. The next day I met with the epidemiologist to piece together how such a program could work. Arthur reminded me of a Swiss watchmaker: slightly stooped, pleasantly plump with a pink complexion, a walrus moustache, and gentle sleepy eyes. Though only in his mid-forties, he was already bald with a curly fringe of blond-white hair. Next, I placed an announcement in the newspaper, describing the project and calling for volunteers. Within two days forty men had applied, and we set up interviews for the following week. I decided we’d select twelve candidates so that, allowing for dropouts, we would end up with a team of ten. Those not selected could be held in reserve for the next training and a second team. I’d design the counseling curriculum and, along with Arthur, oversee the ten-week training.
Steve pulled me aside. “This is big. It’s not just the county. The state and feds are watching how it goes, too. Andie’s right: We’re going to be pioneers!”
• • •
Arthur and Steve joined me for the interviews the next week. Because of the tight timeline, we would conduct group interviews, roughly eight candidates each night. It would also give us an idea how they’d work in a team as they interacted with the other candidates and answered a series of questions: Why do you want to volunteer for this program? What experience have you had with HIV? Have you been tested?
Not surprising, a large number of helping professions were represented: gay men who were teachers, nurses, social workers, counselors. We could have staffed the team with only nurses, which Arthur favored. But Steve and I wanted the program to reflect the diversity of the gay community, with counselors who were African American, Latino and Asian, as well as the different “types” of gay men. “I want counselors guys can identify with,” Steve was saying as we watched the first group of candidates gather in the lobby, “from the super butch to the flaming queen.”
It was at that moment the elevator doors opened and Lukas flamed in. “Bonjour, everyone!” he announced with outspread arms. All heads turned. “I have arrived!” He was one of those people who doesn’t enter a room so much as invades it, bringing his own band, fanfare and spotlight with him. Mid-twenties, slender to the point of being skinny, dressed in slacks and a neon pink satin shirt, he was already going around greeting men there, half of whom he seemed to know.
I turned back to Steve. “I think we just filled the Flaming Queen slot.”
We began the interviews. I asked each applicant to introduce himself. Lukas immediately launched forth. He was a walking stereotype, worked in a fashionable hair salon on Broadway and performed as a drag queen at Darcelle’s on the weekends. (“Many of you know me as Lady Bianca.”) Reviewing Lukas’s application, Arthur asked, “You list ‘medical’ under interests. Do you have medical experience?”
“Well, I just adore ER. I’ve seen every episode twice!” The group chuckled.
“So, you’re interested in medicine?”
“No, I’m interested in the hunky doctors.” Arthur stared at him as the others guffawed.
Steve said, “A number of gay men are deaf, and we need to do a better job of reaching out to them. Lukas, I see on your application that you sign.”
“Some. Enough for basic communication.”
“How basic?”
“Well, I know,” flurry of fingers, “Do you come here often?” and, flurry of fingers, “Take me home with you.’” Steve stared at him, much like Arthur had. “I also know the alphabet.”
“Well, it’s a start,” said Steve.
One hundred eighty degrees from Lukas was John, a retired Air Force colonel in his late fifties. Sitting ramrod straight in his chair, he introduced himself by declaring that he wasn’t gay. So why was he here? He wanted to volunteer, wanted to offer what he could, because he had a gay son living in Los Angeles. It was his way of supporting his son. He looked uncomfortable as he spoke. How would guys coming in to test feel with him? I listened politely as he responded to our questions, but had already scratched him off the list.
Many of the candidates had lost friends or lovers to AIDS; all wanted to make a difference, to do something; perhaps they could keep others from becoming infected.
At the end of the evening, after the candidates left, the three of us discussed them and what each might bring to the program. Arthur had reservations about Lukas. “I’m not sure he has the right professional attitude for this.”
“I understand what you’re saying,” I said, “but it may help to have a social butterfly on the team.”
“Social butterfly? He’s an entire swarm.”
“And we may need some comic relief,” said Steve. Arthur reluctantly assented. In the months ahead, Lukas would be the glue holding our team together, the court jester willing to play the fool, bringing wit and humor to work that would have its grim moments.
I had two concerns among that first evening’s candidates. Tyler was a sophomore at Portland State University, a sweet-faced kid, eager as a pup, and it couldn’t have been more obvious if he wore a sign around his neck: VIRGIN. “He’s only nineteen. I think he’s too young for this.”
“Leo’s only twenty,” said Steve.
“Steve, there’s no comparison. Leo was living on the streets when he was fifteen. Tyler comes from Lake Oswego, for god sake.
