Walking down the carpeted hallway at night in the Ramada reminded Viral of the fateful trip his family had taken to Las Vegas. Yes, the garish decor of the Wilmington hotel evoked memories of terrifying murals of clowns and caged genies along the casino walls of Circus Circus; but it was the ambiance of the places that Viral entwined in his mind. As Circus Circus had, the Ramada in Wilmington heaved with a desolate sigh, the treble of which suggested business was as usual but the bass of which warned travelers to stay leery. What was it about the two places that created such a unique sense of dread in Viral's primal brain?
Viral arrived at the door to Farooq's room and slid the magnetic key into the entrance. When the door opened Viral heard the rhythmic thrum of skin drums and the reedy pitch of what sounded like a bamboo flute. As Viral turned the corner of the room's short foyer he saw Dr. Hackman Krumping in a pair of loose, plaid boxer shorts.
Without hesitating to allow his conclusions to catch up with his instincts, Viral blurted, "Are you Krumping?"
Dr. Hackman leaped a foot into the air and squeaked like a rescue chihuanie. From facing the drawn drapes of the window he turned toward Viral, his gray, hairy gut drooping over his waistband. "What in God's name --"
Viral interrupted, "-- am I doing here?"
"No," Dr. Hackman replied, "In God's name is Krumping?"
Viral pointed at the professor then mimicked his pump and hump gyrations. "Oh that?" said the doctor, "That is the traditional meditation dance of the Onguaye."
Viral nodded. He had a hunch that the doctor was making up an African tribe to hide that he was rehearsing for a Zumba competition, but the room was his and Farooq's; he could krump as he pleased.
"I'm sorry to interrupt," Viral said, "I just came down to pick up some spare clothes for Farooq."
"Is he okay?"
"All things considered, I'd say yes. But the shame one feels after shitting himself is really a problem that percolates with time."
"That's true," Dr. Hackman said, pulling his brown, cotton slacks on over his boxers. Buttoning his shirt he asked Viral, "And how are you doing?"
Viral shrugged, then thought. It had been some time since anyone had asked him that question. Viral imagined he'd been asked thousands of times over the course of his 17 years, and each time he imagined he'd mustered a generic, "I'm good" or "chillin'". The present seemed eons from any previous life he had known, though, and the otherworldly energy of the hotel in which he stood permitted him to peek through his shell. "I'm good," he said.
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Dammit, he thought. He did it again. Even in what felt like an alternate reality where time stood still yet rushed by like the speed of light, Viral could not allow himself the freedom of honesty. He looked at Dr. Hackman, waiting for the adult to move on to other topics, but the doctor's full brown eyes hung open and stared back. Silently, Viral felt challenged to meet the moment with truth.
"I'm scared," he said.
Dr. Hackman smiled and buttoned the last button on his shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled a Kleenex from the nightstand to dry his brow. "You're a ninny like your father," he said.
Viral had expected warmth and empathy in gracious exchange for his vulnerability. Instead he got a cock slap. "Excuse me?" he said.
"Your father used to get nervous every time before he gave a talk," Dr. Hackman said. "One time at a conference in Atlanta...this must have been in '92...he put his finger down his throat and threw up into a silver pitcher of water. Come to think of it, that conference may have been at a Ramada, too. Funny how life works out."
"How well did you know my father?" Viral asked, leaning against the bureau where hours earlier he had watched Farooq dictionary attack Ankur's thumb drive.
"Oh, not well," Dr. Hackman said. "But there was a period of time when we encountered each other on the research and speaking circuit of infectious diseases. Your father had made quite a name for himself before rebranding in the behavioral sciences."
It was true. Viral had heard enough about his father's dual field dominance to understand just how significant the feat had been. One of his first nannies, a graduate assistant to his father at the Medical College of Joliet, had lulled Viral to sleep with the story of how Dr. Chodha, by the age of 35 had been poised to revolutionize the treatment of Aids globally. While the majority of hematological researchers focused on the single target of the acquired immunodeficiency virus, Dr. Chodha had focused on the symptoms. Laughed out of lectures because of a presumed ignorance of pathological investigation -- "You have to treat the culprit not the crime, Gagrat!" -- Dr. Chodha had been on the forefront of what would later become integrative immunology. Many a time during fitful winter evenings when his father totalled too much wine during dictation, Viral had heard his father lament the power he had given his critics. On the verge of publishing his own research on the efficacy of a procedural treatment for HIV involving a suite of weapons aligned against a cavalcade of symptoms, Dr. Chodha had given into self-doubt. The doctor, on the brink of history, dragged and dropped his abstract into the trash folder of Windows 3.1 and disappeared for three days in the upper attic of a reputable whore house. Viral's mother still remained fuzzy on the details, but the graduate assistant nanny relished the most sordid parts of the story as little Viril listened.
When his father emerged from the bosom of a sex worker named Urmana, he was met by the groundbreaking article published by the team that would usurp what Dr. Chodha had seen as his purpose. The collection of drugs to treat the misaligned symptoms of HIV became known as the cocktail, and AZT became a pivotal inflection point in American history. Relegated to the margins was Dr. Gagrat Chodha, though his accomplishments upon which the AZT team built their premises remained heralded by the lab grunts in the know. Lab grunts who krumped discretely. Lab grunts like Dr. Hackman.