We had several blocks before we reached home, so the three of us kept walking. I asked several questions to learn more about Reginald.

“I have aids, man. I have mother f***ing aids. God**** aids. I don’t want aids.”

“I’ve had aids for twelve years.”

“I don’t trust anyone around here. They don’t want to hear my story. No one wants to hear about a black man who has had gay relations.”

“I trusted the guy. He cared. He was my friend. He told me that if I loved him, I would let him screw me.”

“I didn’t know I would get aids. I’m dying of aids, man! Dying of f***ing aids!”

Reginald was really hyper. The faintness of alcohol on his breath was probably permanent. Reginald was sharp. He talked boldly and convincingly. His vocabulary was rich.

“My mom and I don’t have a very good relationship. She has kind of given up on me. She is moving to Connecticut. I don’t see her very often. For the most part, we’ve given up on each other. We used to have a really good relationship.”

We had stopped a block away from our loft. The three of us stood on the corner talking and listening. You could tell Reginald was really enjoying the intimacy. He wanted to talk more. I tried to ask different questions because the redundancy was getting a little boring.

“You’re such a pretty lady!”

“Don’t be hitting on my wife Mr. Reginald!”

“No, no, man, I wouldn’t do that.

We put our hands on Reginald’s shoulder, and said a prayer for his life.

“I rode the bus one time and a guy told me that whenever I am feeling down, to look up and say ‘thank you Jesus!’” In spite of the trite, it appeared this lesson had been applied often in Reginald’s life.

“I’m so glad to have run into you guys tonight. You made my evening. I’m going to remember this forever. I’ll remember your name, Jamaica.”

“Will you remember mine Reginald?”

“What is it again?”

“Brad.”

"Probably not.”