Tuesday, 24 March, 1987

Cries of protest rumble throughout the jungle called Manhattan, drowning out the repetitive clicks and whirs of my bike tires propelling me towards the chaos. The towering museums of capitalism block any visuals and allow only for the distant sounds to slip through the atmosphere and warn the citizens circling through upper New York City, and I am left clueless because of them. I have no idea what the protest is advocating for, but I am intent on finding out, so I veer away from my original route and stick my bike tires to the road towards my new destination.

I have an hour before my job at the retro diner near my house begins, but I'm usually out and about in order to exercise long ahead of when I need to be there. Now that I hear the rally outside and really have no plans as to where I'm supposed to go before my shift starts, I might as well attend and find out what's going on. If the cause is good enough, I may join myself.

My bike curves around the corner of a building and onto a new street, where I can feel myself getting closer to the scene. The noise is amplified with each foot of ground that I cover, and my anticipation builds with each second, my heart trembling within my rib cage, and my breath quick and empty. The music of war draws deafeningly near, and finally I discover the images to accompany it when I turn onto Wall Street.

My eyes adjust to the crowd of about two hundred fifty people -- young people, with hopes and dreams and fire in their souls who will not be stepped on any longer by the greedy capitalists on Wall Street. They're demanding something from them, and to achieve what they wish, they have to come together from all different backgrounds. People of every color, every gender, every financial situation, they're all gathered here to fight for what they believe in. I wish I could help them in some way, but first I need to know what they're so passionate about.

My mother always reminds me to stay out of heated affairs like demonstrations because of how unfairly I would be treated in comparison to the white people there, but I'm already too interested in the protest to leave it alone without knowing what it's for. Merely asking what's going on isn't too dangerous, is it? I can ask one of the protesters then make my way to the diner. Simple as that.

I retrace my steps a bit until I'm no longer on Wall Street, then propping my bike on a building so that it won't be taken by the flood of pandemonium on the other road (who knows what's going to happen once they retreat? It might be a stampede for all I know, as I've never been to a protest before because of my mother's advice, so it's better to be safe than sorry). I make my way back to the riot, and the scene is as alive as it was fifteen seconds prior.

"We die; they do nothing!" the protesters chant in fortified unison, a chant that makes me wary of the matter at hand yet more and more curious nevertheless. Who is being killed? And by whom? How has this not made the news? Why is no one talking about it?

I spot a guy at random in the back of the crowd, pumping his fist and shouting at the people within the walls of their headquarters, whom I approach and ask, "What's this protest about?"

He and another guy clad in a black leather jacket both turn around to answer the question, not sure whom I was addressing. The second one looks to the first to answer, though. They must be friends, as he watches for the first guy's reply even though he knows the answer already.

"Didn't you hear the battle cry?" the first one questions. I detect a classic Brooklyn accent mixed with a classic gay accent, although the border between the two is a bit blurry.

"I can't say that I did."

"Act up, fight back, fight AIDS?" he pushes, brow tilted in a way that makes me a bit nervous for not knowing.

"I heard a bit about AIDS, but I'm afraid I don't know much about it." I gesture incomprehensibly around the air. "A new disease and all that." A lack of prompting by anything I've just said creates a lull in the conversation, but the two men continue to look at me in case I need something else. Seeing as I'm not fully aware of the motivation of this demonstration, I pose another question. "So what's Wall Street going to do for you?"

The second guy takes this one. "Companies have released a new drug -- AZT, it's called -- but it doesn't do anything for people who can't buy it. And that's most people." I can barely hear him through the rich and full bass of human spirit, as he isn't making much of an effort to shout sufficiently, but I manage to understand everything, even with his calm tone.

The second guy is cool and collected, though that might be a side effect of the leather jacket. Beyond the jacket and the white ACT UP t-shirt that compliments it, however, he has other qualities that contribute to my impression of him -- a jaw that he keeps tight when he's not speaking, the line below it shadowed and strong, the sleek ebony hair flowing in the same bend as a hand swiping the oxygen around itself, the soft yet dark lashes framing intelligent eyes, the clarity with which he forms sentences aloud. Quite frankly, I'm intrigued by him, despite only having first encountered him a minute or so ago. I want to know his story and how he ended up here, fighting for his life.

Both of these men look fresh out of college, maybe a few years out of it, if they even went to college at all -- about my age. They are glimpsing the cruel world for the first time as an independent being that has to deal with it themselves, and they have not overlooked the flaws that the generations before them have overlooked. They're fighting for what they deserve, and what they deserve is not a drug that they cannot afford, a drug that teases them above the depths of poverty. Most people fresh out of college don't have a lot of money, and they shouldn't be forced to give up what they do have for a drug that should be inexpensive, because a human life is worth more than material objects like paper rectangles with racists' faces on them. They shouldn't have to be out on the streets as they are now, yelling at the government to let them live.

"Well how much does it cost?" I wonder.

"Ten thousand dollars per patient per year," the first one deadpans.

"Oh my lord!" I exclaim, brows jumping from the bone upon which they normally rest as if physically startled. "How do they expect to market that to the people who need it?"

"Because we're all desperate to survive. We don't want the government to kill us," the one in the leather jacket says. "But the majority of us are not going to pay ten thousand dollars per year for a drug that might give us a slightly larger chance of surviving." He shakes his head in disappointment. "In times like these, we can't afford to be gay, both figuratively and literally."

Noticing my borderline horrified expression, the first one changes the subject. He introduces himself by extending a hand and announcing, "I'm Leo Fischer, and this" -- he nods towards his friend, who gives a curt wave -- "is Mac Bennett."

"Harlow Foster," I supply in return while my hand shakes that of Leo.

Leo smiles shyly, the kind of smile that you give to someone during small talk when you have nothing else to add to what the other person has just said to you. "If you're interested in all of this stuff, you should definitely come to one of our meetings." Leo fishes out a scrap of paper from his pocket and a pencil that he conveniently keeps beside it, and scrawls two addresses on the scrap. "The one on top is the address to our apartment, and the second one is the address for our Monday meetings for a very new organization called ACT UP, which is leading this protest here."

I take the paper and briefly review it before slipping it in the right pocket of my bomber jacket. "Awesome."

"As I said, ACT UP meetings are on Monday nights, and the meetings for our group are on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday, but it doesn't really matter what time you come, because all the members share the apartment whose address I wrote on the scrap."

I check my watch to find that I should be getting back to where I was headed before I made my detour. "It was great to meet you guys, but I gotta motor. I have work at ten thirty." I tap my watch as I back away, on the brink of pivoting on my heel to leave.

"Hope to see you at one of our meetings," Mac tells me, hands in his pockets as nonchalantly as he has proven himself to always be.

I nod at him to acknowledge his words, then speed away to grab my bike and go to work, feeling like this could be the start of something great.

~~~~~

A/N: yay I'm so excited for this story!!!!

I'm doing a research paper on the AIDS crisis and got the idea to write a story about it so yeah

if you want to learn more about the AIDS Crisis (it's honestly so interesting), I recommend watching the movies How to Survive a Plague (which you can find online somewhere) and United in Anger: A History of ACT UP (which you can find on Youtube) and it'll give context for the story; they're such good movies omg just watch them

thanks for reading, and tell me if you like it so far!! thanks!!

~Dakota