“I don’t have it” she said to me confidently.

I believed her, because there was no such thing as women who got it. They simply didn’t exist. It was only gay men, and they were all the dregs of society. But women? That was almost absurd. Like saying:

“Well, we’re here for dinner. Exactly where DO you keep your pet ostrich?”

It was 1984, and the AIDS virus was brand spanking new. As a matter of fact, the diet candy called “Ayds” was still on the shelf, and the virus that was infecting everyone n the U.S. at an alarming rate, was called GRID. Even the scientists assumed it had something to do with male homosexual sex.

So, we were safe.

And Cheryl was safe.

Cheryl was one of the swiftest people I knew. She could do anything and she could do it faster and better than anyone I knew. Blonde hair freckles surrounding only one half of her nose, and a body like a super model. I didn’t see her often, but when we’d bump into each other at a club, or on the street, we’d hug and giggle as if we went to school together. She was 2 years older than I was, we and almost slept with the same guy. Twice.

We laughed about that for months.

Cheryl was a street hooker and made more money than I do right now. She lived like a movie star in a high rise on the tip of Lake Michigan. Her living room window stared at out at the water and at night, the moon hung over one corner as if it were painted there. She had exquisite taste in clothes, furniture, and most of all, people. Not to blow my horn really, because at that time I was one big, brown ball of Mess. I was out of control with my drugs, and my temper flared at any given moment. Cheryl though, used to tell me:

“Sing the National Anthem. You can’t get that pissed off if you’re singing The National Anthem.”

It’s something I actually still try and do.

And she died. She died alone in her fantastic condo overlooking the skyline of Chicago. A neighbor of hers found her after 2 or 3 days.

Later that month, a girlfriend of mine told me her family was there pawing through her stuff, selling things, and going through phone books and diaries. We decided to invite ourselves over and salvage what we could.

Cheryl’s family consisted of Cheetos eating, toothless slobs from some backwards town in various trailers with dirty finger nails and bad breath. When Daphne and I arrived the sun had just set and the moon was getting ready to get in place. Her sister, a tall woman with flaming red hair (I knew that blonde came from a bottle) almost ran me over diving head first into Cheryl’s jewelry box.

And there, over in the corner, shadowed by a small stack of half packed boxes, was a woman in her late 40’s. Sitting slumped in a deep purple chair holding on to a coffee cup and staring mindlessly at the moon.

I walked over to her amongst the noise and confusion.

“I’m Alex.” I said quietly.

She looked over at me.

“I’m Sandra’s mother.”

I finally learned Cheryl’s original name. She never did know mine.

“Were you a friend of Sandy’s?” she asked.

I wasn’t really. We only got together to either get high, exchange hot guys’ phone numbers, or watch TV.

“Yes.” I lied.

“How did she die? Did she have It?”

I stopped. My heart leaped up into my throat. I didn’t know what to tell her. I didn’t know how to say this to her mother, knowing it would be the last thing she ever heard about her daughter, and who knows how many other secrets she’s already been privy to.

So……I lied.

“No. She didn’t. She didn’t have It.”

I lied, and she knew I lied. But it seemed all right.

Sandra’s mom walked to the kitchen, barely able to lift herself off the chair, dumped out the small amount of coffee still sitting at the bottom and handed me the cup.

“Here. Will you take this? I gave this to her when she moved out of the house. It was the first thing I gave her.”

It sits in my kitchen and right now it’s sitting in my hand. I’m looking out my window watching the stars come out over the mountains and there’s a sound a far away train going by. I thought of Cheryl and although I lied to her mother, and Cheryl lied to me, I know I’m not sitting here by mistake. There’s no such thing.

Cheryl was 25 years old. She was important to her mom, and she touched my life. I’m telling her story, drinking a small cup of coffee and thanking God although I do have It, I’m still around to talk about it. And I don’t have to lie. And even though it’s completely unfair, and criminal her life was taken away suddenly and without warning, I commend her. And I talk about her.

I’m looking at the moon, and I’m thinking about you, Cheryl.

Oh say can you see, by the dawn’s early light…..