"He is a model participant. He gets tested for everything now," he adds. "From a clinical standpoint, where I've seen him before, he's doing better."
"Look, I've been there before, I know what it's like to be on the other side, and, no, I don't miss the high, I don't miss that life I had."
He goes on. "I see the folks out here and it just breaks my heart -- does it break yours? You look at them the way I look at them, with that 20/20 hindsight, and the temptation goes away."
Full Circle
Daniels parks the Winnebago at Hechinger Mall and listens to 1230 AM. There's Lee's BBQ, Subway, McDonald's and Pizza Hut nearby. Safeway, in case he needs ice for the cooler, is only a few feet away.
Henry Mallory, the part-time health educator, comes in and sits on the front dining table, snacking on potato chips and soda. Mallory is transgender, and Daniels refers to him as "her."
"Let me tell you something about this man," says Mallory, 48, a former drug user and street worker who has AIDS. It was a little rough when they first met more than two years ago. ("Sometimes Mallory was rude in talking with some of the participants. Yelling at them. Telling them off," Daniels says later. "I had to take her to the back room and say, 'I will not allow you to talk to people like that. That's not what we do here.' ") "This RV is his addiction," Mallory continues. "Even when he's not supposed to be here, he's here. You just can't stop him from worrying about this unit and the participants. He's always telling people, 'I'm gonna do this and this for you.' You can't stop him."
Daniels sits quietly behind the steering wheel and looks out the window -- the morning's sunshine has been replaced by a light rain.
Moments later, he takes off, drives toward the last exchange site of the day. "What more can I ask for?" Daniels says, smiling. "I think I got another 15 years to live."
He is "in excellent health," he says; his CD4 count -- a measure of immune system health -- is over 500, a good sign. He is "very close" to his siblings, Paulette, Ora, Phyllis, Patricia and John Sr. The family makes it a point to get together for dinner and a movie once a month. He is "extremely close" to his children, Kevin and Kieyannia, and his grandchildren, 3-year-old Berry and nearly year-old Takayai. Recently he completed more than 1,200 hours (when only 20 hours were needed) to be a certified addiction specialist.
"This is the happiest I've been in twenty-somethin' years. It's sad to say that because there's no reason for me to be happy from the outside lookin' in," Daniels says. Four more hours until dinner. Barbara is waiting at their one-bedroom apartment in Southeast Washington.
"I didn't wake up one day, you know, and say I wanna be a drug addict. I didn't wake up one day, you know, and say I wanna be HIV-positive. But in the last 25 years, both of those things have been a part of me," he says. "Who would have ever thought I'd get here? That I'd come full circle? That after all those years I'd get to help people out, people who were just like me?
"It ain't no fun walkin' in this rain, in this rain that's comin' down now, not havin' no money, no place to go, no food. It ain't fun.
"Look at that man sittin' out there on the steps."
Daniels parks the Winnebago in front of St. Matthew's Baptist Church, where "All Are Welcome," the sign says at New Jersey Avenue and L Street SE, a few blocks from the Capitol.
Turner grabs his hepatitis C fliers; Mallory sits at the laptop.
The man waiting in the rain is Al, another old buddy. He and Daniels grew up just a few houses apart on Sixth Street SE, and Daniels idolized him. He played ball well. He got the pretty girls. He drove a nice white Caddy.
He's 49 now. His left eye is gone, lost in a prison fight. He's a regular at this exchange site, and says he's proud of the work that "Boo" -- as Daniels was once known -- is doing.
At the moment, Al is the only one waiting. But the man who used to be called "Boo" hurries out of the Winnebago and heads toward his old friend.
"How you doin' today?"
