Mixed Tape: A novel

Will Rafferty, a young man coming of age in Halifax, Nova Scotia, during the 1980s, spends a lot of time running away from his feelings, the truth, and his own life. Set against a backdrop of pop music, politics, friendship, first love, and the AIDS epidemic, Mixed Tape is about coming out and about ‘staying in’. It’s about the cost of self-denial, finding love, and the long road toward telling the truth, especially to oneself.

Prologue: “Waiting for a Girl Like You” Halifax, January 1, 1982 I woke with a jolt. It was hot inside the car—sauna-hot—and dark, except for the soft glow of the dashboard, washing over the windshield in sickly green. The air was “wool-thick with smoke, the stale tang of cigarettes clinging to my throat, turning my stomach again. “Someone crack a window, Jesus,” I groaned, patting myself down for my own pack, as I was clawing at my winter layers for relief from the heat. “It lives,” Sarah said, twisting around in the front seat. I couldn’t see her face, just the silhouette of her hair haloed by the streetlights. “He’s not going to spew again, is he?” Jeannie called over her shoulder, a mass of red perm in the driver’s seat. “My dad will kill me if you puke in here, Will.” The car—her father’s pride and joy, a white ’78 Ford LTD with a vinyl roof and plush red velour seats—seemed to sigh, resigned to the indignity of shuttling teens. I wondered whether vomit came out of velour or if it just became part of its soul forever. “Where are we?” I asked, lighting up. “Twenty minutes from your place,” Sarah said. “Is Darren alive back there?” “I glanced to my right. Darren lay in a heap in the opposite corner of the backseat; an impossible jumble of arms and legs, and bulky winter clothes. “Hard to say in this light,” I mumbled, “but I think he’s still breathing.” I slumped back, holding the cigarette loosely between my fingers, and retreated further into my winter coat. I was still drunk—head pounding, mouth sour, stomach threatening revolt. The whole thing was my own fault. New Year’s Eve—well, New Year’s Day now. 1982. I’d had no plans, happy enough to have the house to myself after my father and his latest girlfriend left for some party. Then Sarah called, and one thing led to another: a house party thrown by some guy from school—one of Jeannie’s many admirers—and a water cooler filled with the cheapest white wine imaginable. Someone handed me a beer mug full of the stuff, and that was the beginning of my descent. The dark glass of the car’s window flared orange as I took a drag from my “cigarette, revealing a distorted reflection of my face. Outside, the sky was a hard black mantle pricked with cold stars; a sliver of moon provided backlighting for a swath of silver clouds. The heater hummed along to Blondie on the radio. In the front seat, the girls chatted in hushed voices, signaling that a full-blown debrief on the party was underway, including judgment of our classmates. “The news is next,” the radio DJ announced. I leaned into the front seat, reaching for the radio, interrupting some salacious gossip. “Can you turn that up?” Ash broke off my cigarette and scattered across Sarah’s arm and the front seat. “Hey!” Jeannie barked. “My dad will take your balls if you burn a hole in that upholstery!” “Relax…” I reached for the volume knob again. Sarah slapped my hand away and brushed the ash onto the floor. “I want to hear the news,” I said, wounded. “It’s all depressing shit,” Sarah said, but she turned it up anyway.” “anyway. “…as the year comes to a close, dissent in the governing Parti Québécois may lead to a change in leadership.” A pause. Static. Then: “Doctors in the U.S. are continuing to diagnose cases of a rare and often rapidly fatal form of cancer among homosexual men. The cause is under investigation, but researchers say there is no evidence of contagion.” My heartbeat stalled. “In San Francisco and New York City, physicians treating large numbers of homosexual men are sharing information to identify more cases and reduce delays in treatment. The mysterious illness, currently being referred to as GRID—Gay Related Immune Deficiency—was first reported in June by the U.S. Centers for Disease Control.” Another breath. “To date, approximately one hundred and twenty cases have been reported in the United States, ninety-two percent of which are gay men. Seventy-four have died, all of whom were homosexual or bisexual.” Jeannie swore quietly and switched the radio dial to a countdown of the top songs of 1981.” “Jesus, that’s grim. No more.” I wanted to tell her to turn it back, but I couldn’t, as if truth stuck in my throat, making me mute. Something cold and hollow was spreading through my chest, a creeping terror with no name yet. Seventy-four have died. All of whom were homosexual or bisexual. Those words struck me like a blow, and I felt myself folding inward, shrinking deeper into the corner of the backseat. You see, I was gay—or I thought I might be—or maybe bisexual. I didn’t really know for sure. I’d been fantasizing about guys for years, but only in the privacy of my own mind, where it was easy to pretend that it meant nothing. I’d had girlfriends, sure, but they were really just…friends. I told myself I was inexperienced, shy, waiting for the right moment, waiting to snap out of it and waiting for nature to kick in and make me straight, like it was supposed to. I stared at the silver clouds scudding across the slice of moon beyond the window and swallowed hard.” “If I am gay but no one knows… can I still get the gay cancer? And if I get it… then everyone will know.’ I stared at my dim reflection in the window, like I was expecting answers. None came. In the periphery of my fear and awareness, Foreigner’s unmistakable synthesizer and bass line swelled from the radio, and Lou Gramm singing about waiting for a girl. But I didn’t want to just wait like Lou; I desperately prayed, hoping for salvation, hoping I was normal…” Excerpt From Mixed Tape: A novel Geoffrey Wilson This material may be protected by copyright.