Harlan's Race

way — what love really is. He was now the same age as I was when I first started having sex with men. For the first time, it struck me how much like me he’d become — somber, restrained. And how much like him I had become—younger, more open, less judgmental. Loving myself, trusting myself, was now possible. So was trusting Vince, even loving him. I felt such regret at the way jealous passion had blinded me.
    “Why are you here?” he asked.
    ‘To apologize,” I said.
    “Why should you apologize? You’re always right.”
    I ignored the barb. “For going so crazy. Thinking you were getting it on with Russell.”
    “So H-C finally told you the whole story, huh.”
    We were silent for a minute.
    “Weird,” he said. “I mean ... here I’m worrying about some yahoo with a gun, and maybe I’ve got the . . . whatever.”
    “Chino told me about Mario.”
    He shrugged again.
    “When I talked to Doctor Jacobs, he was adamant that gay men should stop having sex till we find out what it is. Like ... the sun should stop shining, right? Then I called Michael — he goes on and on about blood, and needles. And, you know, I did get this creepy feeling ’cause I’d shared needles with Mario.”
    “How’d you find out he died?”
    “I happened to notice Harold Fairbanks’ obit in Update. I hadn’t seen Mario since the summer of’78. He was in real estate in San Diego.”
    ‘You look good.”
    “I feel great. Just out of curiosity, I had a CBC done. My T-cell level is 900 something.”
    A long silence.
    “How’s your health?” he asked.
    “I’m healthy as a horse. I dug clams all summer.” ‘You look really good.”
    “What’s your plan?” I asked.
    He shrugged. “Live on the edge.”
    “Live alone?” I asked.
    “Yeah ... I’m alone, all right. I’ve been a mercenary with men’s hearts, haven’t I?”
    The old Vince — the one I’d broken up with — wasn’t that honest. Neither was the old Harlan. It was time for me to be that honest.
    “Chino and I have been together,” I said.
    “I could see that coming. Well, he’s a good man.” ‘We’re not a couple.”
    “Why not?”
    “Both of us need to handle some old stuff.”
    Vince nodded. He didn’t seem to give a hell what I’d done. “Chino has earned some slack from life.”
    Head bent sorrowfully, he turned away. Suddenly he said in a hoarse voice:
    “God ... there’s so much I want to do!”
    He slammed his fist down on his desk. The shock of energy jolted down through his body, right into his strong buttock muscles. It was the athlete’s rage that sweeps into a world class effort. My memory leaped back to three college boys who’d just reached my office at Prescott
    — tired hitch-hikers, so desperate and determined, their eyes asking me for help. This last boy was asking me one last time.
    ‘Then why,” I wanted to know, “are you so ready to risk your life in the Memorial?”
    Suddenly, in one of those mercurial shifts of his, he grinned. “If I go out, I’d rather go like that than the way Angel did. Anyway, I feel this good juju all around us. I trust Chino and Harry. I think we’ll win.”
    I had to grin back. ‘That’s a good psych for a runner to have.”
    Eyes alight that I’d mentioned running, he made a dramatic fist in the air. “Right on! The grandest kick!” he said. “Hauling down Death. Yeah!”
    “Go for broke,” I said. “With me.”
    “Are you serious? You’re going to be involved?” “There’s no way I’ll let you do this alone.”
    Now his face was glowing, anxious — the volatile emotion. Words tumbled from his lips.
    “Harlan, look, we were hard on each other. But... do you think that we — I mean, I can go it training alone. But
    ‘Yes,” I said.
    ‘You”ll coach me again?”
    “No drugs or anything else that cuts your performance.” “I don’t do drugs any more.”
    My heart glowed to hear that. “I’ll be your pacing partner, too. What the hell... I’d like to run again. With all the new training technology, an old dog like me can do a 4-minute mile.”
    Our gazes held each other. Now the air between us was bathed in sheet-lightning of questions. The last time we’d been together, we’d hurt each other. Trust is delicate, and we’d shattered it. Could it be built again? Could there be intimacy again? His grin faded a little.
    “But let’s —•” He hesitated. “Let’s not —”
    “Not rush into things this time?”
    ‘Yeah,” he said with