CRAIG EPSOM-NELMS & THE BITCH GODDESS
CRAIG EPSOM-NELMS & THE BITCH GODDESS
When I returned to North Carolina I arranged to have lunch with BG and Craig Epsom-Nelms. The King, Dr. Brinkhaus was tied up for the day, but Stephen Pemberton his assistant agreed to meet us at the restaurant in Chapel Hill. Fabio was also available. I was intent on connecting things quickly—to fill out the story possibilities while I could still buy lunch. Craig gave me easy directions to his apartment where BG would be meeting us. Craig was the director of AIDS Central Awareness or ACE. He called it AIDS Southern Style, ASS, in honor of the good Senator Jesse Helms.
“The man doesn’t want to admit that he likes young boys.” Craig said in one of our phone conversations. His voice had a smooth nasal quality to it, an octave or so higher than BG’s, with only occasional hint of his Southern training that came out in mimicry, y’all. Craig was the son of a Southern Baptist minister, navy brat retired and active in anything that mattered to him. He was HIV positive and severe factor VIII deficient. In the couple of years before our first contact he had gone through knee replacement surgery, lost his partner to AIDS and achieved his Masters degree. He had written a book about his knee. He was into extreme personal awareness.
Craig had sent me names and addresses of others that he thought may be interested in the project but I was holding off on any cold calling until things like money and story developed a bit more. When I arrived at the apartment BG was already there. Craig’s slightly weak handshake matched his lanky frame and nerdy appearance, but his personality and great teeth made up for it. His apartment was as neat as a pin. BG sat chewing on ice cubes and watched me react to the realm I was entering
“This place is such a mess. I’m a slob,” he said as he dragged his bad leg around the room.
“I’m here for lunch, not inspection,” I said.
“Wally was the neat one. Tell him about Wally, Roscoe,” BG said not wasting any time.
Roscoe pointed to a picture of a black man next to the stereo. “Wally Epsom was my partner, we were married, he was a black man and that’s why I hyphenate my name Epsom-Nelms, and he died of AIDS, so I’m a Homo-Hemo,” he said in one long breath.
“Cool, let’s go eat,” I answered.
“Let me fix my do first,” he said, sticking his face in front of the mirror and moving his hair with one hand while wiping moisture off the back of the sink with the other.
Craig could have passed for straight but he went out of his way to create a stereotype of a homosexual man, either for shock value or simply to let his hair down. I felt comfortable with him either way. He was an open book, restless to the point of obsession, a crazed multi-tasker. BG didn’t hide her shadows either. She was obviously checking me out, wondering about my sexuality and preference.
I maneuvered the Intrepid through the midday traffic to get us to the restaurant on time.
“BG, he drives like a madman,” Craig said, buckled into the front seat, gripping his notebook in his lap.
“Everything’s under control,” I assured them. “I’ve got to be on time.”
“He’s one of those,” BG said. “In the hemophilia community you get used to being late.”
“Not if I can help it,” I said.
“I guess I can be on time for once,” Roscoe said smiling and enjoying the ride.
“You two have fun. I’ll be late anyway,” BG grunted, looking out the side window and chomping on an ice cube.
We made the Chapel Hill exit and weaved through town to the hospital where Stephen, pale in the afternoon sun in dark glasses, made his way to the pickup area with his binder under his arm. He sat with BG in the back.
“Glad you could join us, Stephen.” I said introducing everybody around.
“Dr. Brinkhaus sends his regrets,” he said.
“Fabio from the Film Foundation will be joining us for lunch,” I said, wheeling into traffic on the way to the meeting place across town.
The Intrepid found a space easily in the parking lot. I stopped off for Players at the tobacco shop on the way into the restaurant. We had ordered by the time Fabio showed up and he just had something to drink. It was right there at that table that I attempted to define myself in the bringing together of all the different aspects of the project, Mephistopheles, the Vampire, the Bitch Goddess, the Fairy Godfather and me.
“I need money,” I announced to the Film Foundation, the medical community, the home-care industry and the hemophilia community as I picked up the check for lunch. Stephen confirmed the King, Dr. Brinkhaus’ support in front of witnesses. BG and Craig ate and Fabio told me about a premiere that was happening that night in Chapel Hill: an independent feature about contemporary vampires in a rock group. He said that the Foundation had supported the effort and he would reserve a ticket for me to pay for at the box office. I figured it was time to schmooze with the film community a little, so I agreed.
After lunch Craig, BG and I dropped Stephen off at the hospital and then back-tracked to a Brew Pub across the street from the restaurant and socked down a couple of pints and chips while hashing over the King, Dr. Brinkhaus’ interest in the film. Then I took them back to Carey. Craig let me use his shower to freshen up and change for the premiere. I returned to Chapel Hill to see a really bad movie with lots of fake blood celebrated with pomp and circumstance. I saw Fabio there and sat next to him. I walked out before it was over and gave up on schmoozing. It was time to go back to my cave, a three hour drive away.
Rupert says, “Cruisin’ down the highway
with a pickled egg and coffee,
a half a pack of cigarettes
and a hundred miles to go.
Oh, Yeah.”