SOMPLACE ONLY I KNOW

I officially became a member of Friends for Life yesterday. It’s something I’ve been putting off for a while now. I had the application for months before I got my doctor to sign it, it was another couple of months before I took it down to Gordon House, and then I postponed my orientation appointment a week. Shallow as it might sound, I hate support groups; getting touchy-feely makes me uncomfortable. The only reason I joined was to get the free massage. I figure if I’m going to have to bear this burden, I might as well get my shoulders rubbed.

The last time my HIV status got me a membership into a club was right after I tested positive. Needless to say I was moving through water for a couple of weeks; everything was happening in slow motion and I could hear people talking but couldn’t understand what they were saying. I remember my friend’s hands on my shoulders guiding me to a doctor’s appointment and getting him to sign a form stating I was HIV. From the doctor’s office we went straight down to the Cannabis Club on Market St.

The line-up to get into the club looked like something out of “Blade Runner.” All different kinds of people using walkers, or in wheel chairs, twitching and limping – most of them with the rainbow flag somewhere on their person. It was middle of the day, and we were in broad daylight. It was rumoured the FBI had the place under surveillance from one of the hotel rooms across the street. I was too high to care.

The club was open for only a few hours a day, so it was always packed. There were two floors, the second tended to be a little quieter. I remember walking up to a bar and looking at the selection of pot that was offered. The prices were high for what you got, but for the most part it was pretty killer pot. We took our little baggies of medical grade marijuana and sat down at one of the tables in a windowed corner. The place was exactly what you would expect a pot club in San Francisco to look like: Old couches and chairs, crystals reflecting the sunlight throughout the room. Ferns.

I remember sitting there, staring into one of the crystals dangling from fish wire, peeling an orange I had grabbed from a one of the barrels stationed around the club, and thinking, “I’m a fucking freak.” And in that moment, the world stopped, and I was able to get on with my life again.

True to form, I put off going to my orientation appointment until the last possible second. And then I got lost trying to find Gordon House. The person who was going to be showing me around was busy with another member, so I was told to help myself to coffee and pastries in the dining room. There was meeting going on in the living room, old ragtime was playing. There was heat emanating from the kitchen. There was something about the way the light filtered through the windows that reminded me of the cannabis club on Market St. The window I was sitting in faced the porch where six or seven people sat, smoking.

I was already wired on coffee, so caffeine was out of the question. I helped myself to a glass of water and stared at two beautiful cupcakes with pink icing; it was like narcissus looking at his reflection in the water. The painting of Gordon House on the wall distracted me. “I wonder if they would notice if I took this?” I thought to myself.

“Are you becoming a member?” someone asked from behind me.

“Uh…yeah,” I stammered, turning to face a man I had just seen on the porch smoking. “Today’s my orientation I guess.”

“It’s a great place. It saved my life.”

I smiled and nodded like a foreigner. I was tempted to say, “Hey, I’m down with the whole HIV thing; I’m not looking for a shoulder to lean on, I’m just here for the massage.”

The next thing I knew someone had their arm around my shoulder and I was being introduced to a dog. I could feel myself starting to hyperventilate. And then finally, the woman I was meeting with said she was ready to show me around. Once more I felt like I was hallucinating as I was shown into the kitchen and then led upstairs, past more great art. I poked my head into the yoga/meditation room and one of the counseling rooms, and then asked to wait just a little longer in the library. It was like the house in “The Royal Tennenbaums.”

There I sat in the turreted room amongst the books like an apparition. Considering how many people were in the house, the library was quiet. I got up to look at the art and the books and sat back down at the table. “This would be a great room to sit and write in,” I thought. There was so much warmth in that room, it was like being wrapped inside a blanket, inside a cocoon.

We’ll see if I ever actually get around to a message; but it’s nice to know it’s there if I need it.

GarpinBC