Well if you're damned if you bone and you're damned if you don't bone, we know how we'd vote.

So what did change?

"The baths closed, though not immediately," Peter says. "Video rentals (especially porn) took off. People got sick. People got scared. People got careful. People got (more) political. But the bars and dance clubs, with a few extremes curtailed, continued to operate, mostly as they had, with their numbers declining only very gradually."

All in all, "walking through the Castro on a Saturday afternoon in 1981-1982, one would not notice a big difference when compared to the same scene in 1979-1980, except for AIDS-related posters, leaflets, and political tabling (side by side with non-AIDS-related posters, leaflets, and tabling)."

Paul Fusco/International Center of Photography
You could still see a lot of varied stuff in the Castro District is really the point.

Which is not to say that the crisis wasn't a big deal, just that popular depictions of the scene were, as usual, mostly wrong. Peter remembers "comments from some in the straight world ... expressing surprise that our culture hadn't shut down. A reporter from one local news station, filming at a special dance event, remarked that the crowd was 'unexpectedly' festive. What the hell had she expected? Shrouds and lamentations? Her clear implication was: Gays are all about sex, dancing leads to sex, and sex leads to AIDS, so why are you crazy homos still dancing and, yknow, being all gay?"

It's amazing how adaptable human beings are. Your neighborhood gets hit with the plague this week and it's all lamentations and wailing. But fast forward a few weeks and there's you, calmly donning your bird mask and checking the Google Playgue app to see where the death wagon is today and how badly it'll affect your commute. For Peter, dealing with death became as routine as reading the newspaper. Literally:

"The local gay paper published obituaries each week, and I'd check them carefully," Peter says. "Clearly that's a case of either no news or bad news, but I figured it was better to learn someone had passed from reading a news page than to get the news in a more sudden, unpleasant way -- like phoning him after a period of non-contact and hearing his roommate tell you he's dead and start to cry (which happened to a friend of mine). I even did my obit scans during the workday, grabbing the paper in a local bar where I'd stop after lunch."

Thomas Alleman/The San Francisco Sentinel
The obituaries would get longer and longer as AIDS went on to become the leading cause of death among young men.

A lot of free time had to be sacrificed for hospital visits and memorial services, but eventually, Peter says, he "merged them into my schedule like haircut appointments." He's proud to report that he "never decided against" attending a funeral, and on only one occasion was he forced to send his regrets ...

... because it conflicted with a different funeral.

That kind of allergy to action is despicable, but at least they weren't campaigning for concentration camps, like California's Proposition 64, sponsored by the Prevent AIDS Now Initiative Committee. Yes, they actually called themselves "PANIC," presumably because "Early Virus Identification and Liquidation" was taken. PANIC insisted that all they wanted to do was add AIDS to the CDC's list of communicable diseases, but public health authorities warned that PANIC was downplaying the consequences of this, including mandatory testing and mass quarantine.

"The lack of trust that this engendered is probably hard for today's gay community -- who sees things like public billboards for antiviral meds -- to picture," Peter says. "The idea that you might also be consuming outright lies, or worse, envisioned for mass quarantine was a source of needless extra anxiety ... I rarely hear it mentioned today, but it was regarded as a near-mainstream position for some in the 1980s, not a crackpot fringe view as it is now."

PANIC
It's not hard to imagine the people laughing at 4,200 deaths in that video shrugging if the barbed wire fences came out.

Ironically, those panic-driven measures probably exacerbated the epidemic. As Peter points out "the buildup to Prop 64 in California must surely have caused lots of people to forgo testing for fear of eventual quarantine ... Even now, HIV testing by public health agencies is anonymous -- at least when done right -- to safeguard against discrimination. In the early years when confidentiality was less certain and discrimination laws still weak, there were stories of people being fired after their bosses learned they'd merely gone to be tested."

Peter also recalls that "some physicians [were] openly hostile," so there was always the risk that your own doctor might tell your employer just to spite you.

Hey, just out of curiosity, how's your IRA coming along? What, you don't have an IRA yet? That's a problem for "future you" to deal with? The young men in the midst of the AIDS epidemic felt the same way. Peter recalls that "the palpable threat of possibly never reaching middle age, let alone retirement, caused a lot of us to shut out that whole vision." So they did the completely logical thing and lived like they were gonna die young. "After my own diagnosis, I assumed I'd never even make it to Y2K, so while I didn't max out my cards like some guys, I saw no point in accumulating savings," Peter says.

By the '90s, medical science had revolutionized HIV treatment. It appeared that they might not die after all, and that left a lot of men in a precarious situation: "After the superdrugs arrived in the mid-1990s, a running joke acknowledged this peculiar situation -- thousands of men in their 40s or 50s with no nest egg suddenly realizing they'd survive -- saying 'It's great that we're all gonna live, but it sure is gonna fuck up a lot of plans,'" Peter says. "Viatication (a choice offered to some types of policyholders during the death-sentence era that works much like a reverse mortgage, where your life insurance benefit is paid to you while alive) made news often in the early 1990s, and spawned a lot of predictable jokes about who'd go bankrupt if the cure arrived tomorrow."

Thomas Alleman/The San Francisco Sentinel
The punch line of course being "Who the fuck cares if thousands of people get to live."

At the time these treatments became available, Peter was in bad shape and began preparing for the worst. "My concern, obviously, was comfort and stability for whatever time I had left, not retirement," he says. "HAART changed all that." On the one hand, his improvement was nothing short of miraculous, even allowing him to return to work. On the other hand, "for a while, it didn't even register that I now had to devise a strategy and goals." A lot of scrambling to make up for lost time has helped Peter stabilize his finances, but "it's not nearly what an ordinary 60-year-old should have," he says. "I'm still expecting to be able to stay in my home when I retire and not starve. That said, I'll never be taking a cruise or flying overseas. I don't own a car."

Well hey, look on the bright side, Peter: There's still an off chance the Yellowstone Caldera could go super-volcano, or there's runaway climate change and hyper storms, obviously we got asteroid impacts, and the robot scourge is looking pretty promising these days ...

Manna has a Twitter sometimes.

For more insider perspectives, check out 5 Realities Of Life When You Know You're Going To Die and 6 Surprising Ways Life Looks Different With Terminal Disease.

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