HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE THE CAT AND THE FIDDLE
I discovered a foundation dedicated to independent film. They acted as a non-profit fiscal sponsor. This would enable contributors to the project a charitable tax deduction. The foundation also opened the door to grants that required recipients to be non-profit organizations, and also offered support services for independent films. A non-profit fiscal sponsor like that seemed essential for non-commercial films or documentaries. While Brent channeled his energies into finding investors and willing participants for the documentary, I continued reading anything I could get my hands on about hemophilia and contacted the film foundation. This was, after all, a worthwhile project, and nothing, to our knowledge, had been attempted for the general public about hemophilia. In fact, early on Brent received a video from the National Hemophilia Foundation in which there was a passionate appeal for someone to tell the story, factually and visually.
We would return to the barbershop at about four on weekday afternoons, Fish’s lunch break. Brent would have his beer and watch the shop, while Fish would step out to the yard and have lunch with Alva. Fish had images of straight razors etched on either pinky nail. I usually retired to the apartment for phone calls and more reading, a lot of which I wasted on Dr. Deusberg, who I felt was basically saying that AIDS wasn’t his fault. When the money from up North didn’t come, my visit began to wear on Fish. I sold a few things from the back of the truck. One of the things I parted with was an old fiddle which I had picked up at a yard sale many years ago. I didn’t know how to play it, but Toots the cat used to strum the strings on many a lonely night whenever I was living under a roof that I could call home, and could have my things spread about.
I continued to do chores around the shop, and gardening, but the food stopped, except for occasional leftovers and the Saturday feasts. I stayed out of Fish’s way as much as possible, and made certain that I didn’t seem to be having any fun. The hope was that Brent and I could get the necessary funding quickly, and start production—but then I began to find things out.
For one thing, Brent had attempted other fund raising ventures, such as raffles and concerts. He had ideas, but didn’t fully follow through—he gave up. The boxes of newsletters, which I had assumed he had a mailing list for, were actually sent in bulk to a few home-care companies and may never have been distributed. And finally I found out how the hemophilia community reacted to Brent’s views on HIV. What I saw as denial or legitimate doubt about whether HIV causes AIDS, people who were dying and whose friends or relations were dying saw as a slap in the face.
Two companies, however, had sent money in good faith in response to a proposal for a film which I would produce and direct. Of course, they didn’t know me from diddly or that I had just been thrown out of film school, but they had responded to a proposal which I had basically written. They did know Brent and he had been the messenger. I had escaped to Wilmington and the opportunity presented itself to tell a story–make a movie. Brent was a professional hemophiliac, that’s how he made his living. By now we had used part of the money to acquire an attorney, form a company, and have stationery printed. I was still counting on Brent to raise the money, I knew I couldn’t. But I feared he would fade on me. And then along came Lemonhead.