“Fuck, yeah.” He pumped his fist at his side. I was just glad he didn’t hop up and do a full-on cheer. With rhyming, of course. “What did you reply?”
I looked back down at my phone. “I didn’t, yet.”
“Wellsaysomething, dumbass!”
I started typing, narrating my words - quietly, because this was not a topic I wanted my diner companions privy to - to Jamal as I went:
Me:Awesome news. I’m still waiting on HIV and syphilis but everything else is negative for me.
“And…?” Jamal prompted when I stopped reciting and hitsend.
“Huh?”
“Say something else!” he hissed, swatting at my hand. “We just had a whole conversation about this!”
I gulped. We had, hadn’t we. I started typing again:
Me:How have you been doing? I’m alternating between perfectly fine and a nervous wreck.
Before hittingsend, I read it out to Jamal, who wobbled his hand in the air in a so-so gesture. “Could be worse,” he allowed. “Go ahead and send it and do you.”
I did. A few seconds later, a reply came in.
Jamison Duschene:About the same. I keep reminding myself that HIV is completely survivable and even if I do pull positive I can have a full, normal life. Sometimes the reminder even works!
I read that out to Jamal, put my thumbs back on the keyboard, and stopped short, looking back up at my friend. “Now what do I say?” I demanded. “I need to keep the conversation going, right?”
“Yes!” he hissed, flapping a hand at me. “Talk to the guy!”
“What do Isay?”
He opened his mouth, paused, and blinked. “I have no fucking idea, man. I mean, I’d say just chat, but it’s kind of a heavy transition from ‘What if we have HIV?’ to ‘So, whatcha doin’?’” We sat there in silence for a few seconds, staring at each other, before he opened his mouth again. “Say something about, um…shit.”
Yeah, that sounded about like what I’d come up with. I looked back down at my phone. “How about, um. Okay.” I started typing and narrating. “I’m really sorry, again, that I put you in this position. But…” And there I ran out of words. I looked at Jamal helplessly.
“But…” he picked up, his eyes slewing to the side as they did when he was deep in thought. “But…ok, I’ve got it. ‘But I’m glad it gave me a reason to stay in touch with you’. No!” he interrupted himself before I could type that. “No, don’t say that, it’s cheesy and probably insensitive. Ugh, this is hard.”
“No fucking kidding, man.” I sighed. “There’s got to be little in life more awkward than trying to start a conversation in these circumstances.” My phone vibrated and I jumped, almost fumbling it.
Jamison Duschene:Sorry, that was really heavy. I don’t want to make it sound like I’m angry, because I’m not. Scared, yes, but not angry. We both fucked up.
Jamison Duschene:Shit that wasn’t any less heavy. Fuck. I didn’t mean
Jamison Duschene:ANYWAY. Sorry. I just wanted to let you know my results. Lmk when you get yours.
I read that all out to Jamal and then looked up at him. “He seems pretty stressed and maybe determined to stay on topic. Maybe I should just…not with the conversation.”
My friend sighed and tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “Yeah I guess probably not. I still say you should at least make friends with the guy if you can, though. You’re sharing an emotional experience and you get along well as far as you can tell. That’s a recipe for bonding. Take the W.”
I shrugged. “Maybe when the rest of my results come in, it’ll seem a little more natural to start a conversation.”
“Maybe.” He turned my mug, which he still had custody of, in his hands. “Or maybe you could just text him randomly at some point after your results. Say hi, ask how he’s doing.”
That struck me as possibly even more awkward than trying to piggyback a conversation on test results, but what the hell did I know, I was a woodworker who lived in a log cabin in the woods and couldn’t work my bookkeeping software without phoning a friend. “Yeah,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll try.”
Jamal pushed the empty mug back at me. “And for agreeing to that, I’ll allow you to have one more cup of coffee. But only if you promise not to go full-on Tigger afterward.”
He’d always accused me of getting too hyped up on coffee and bouncing like the fictional tiger. I’d always argued that coffee rendered me functional, not hyper. This was a familiar argument, and I smiled. “The wonderful thing about Henries is,” I half-sang the character’s tagline, “A Henry’s a wonderful thing.”
