A Circle of Strength

"Where's Drew?" asks Isler.

Drew accepted a role in a skit the men have been practicing, planning to perform it for Ujima's first anniversary celebration. In it, Lee plays an addict who gets jailed for stealing. Kevin plays a dealer. Stanley's the narrator. Russell, not much into acting, sits out. Last week, Drew, 53, was the arresting officer.

Isler turns to Michael. "Are you going to be here next week? I can tell in your face that you're going to be here. Can you play the part?"

"Nah, man," Michael says. "I got a lot on my mind."

"What's on your mind?" Isler asks.

"I think my parole officer is going to lock me up. . . . I don't want to be locked up . . . but I done enough things to get locked up," Michael says, his face in his hands.

Every meeting ends the same, the men reciting a creed: "We the men of the Courage to Change group are dedicated to resolve our issues, eliminate our pains and improve our circumstances for the better."

* * *

"How do I tell a woman that I'm positive? When do I tell her?" asks Drew. He tested positive three years ago. His three brothers -- Joe, William and Robert -- all intravenous drug users, died of AIDS complications.

Stanley shrugs.

Russell sighs.

"That's a real tough thing." Kevin says. "I gotta tell you, I'm at a point now where I'm cool with telling . . ."

Lee cuts Kevin off.

"Whatever you do, just make sure you tell her before you sleep with her," Lee says. "You don't want that guilt hanging over your head."

Lee learned he was positive in 1993, three days before he was released from a federal prison in New Jersey. He's not sure when he got infected.

"I was in denial about [HIV], didn't want to deal with it," Lee says. For four years, he kept using cocaine and heroin, kept sleeping around with "a lot of women." They didn't ask if he was positive, and he never said anything. "That was the lifestyle I was living."

Adds Kevin: "I'm not ashamed of this thing" anymore. "Any lady I get in contact with, believe me, she knows what I'm dealing with. . . . I don't ever want to give nobody this."

He is one of the few men to give his full name. One of the few who talks about what it has been like in his neighborhood, where the teenagers who once hung out at his place to watch movies, or a game, don't come around much anymore.

"Viracept," the name of an HIV medication, is printed on his backpack.

* * *

Lee is nervous, and Isler is nervous for him.

The audience consists of employees of Family and Medical Counseling Service, the men of Ujima and members of another support group, this one for HIV-positive women. The group of 25 or so is cramped in a windowless basement in late August. On a table in the back is a chocolate cake with yellow icing that reads: "Happy 1 Year Anniversary!"

Isler is explaining the skit he wrote, a moment that the men in Ujima all know: detoxing, alone, in a cell. There is hope, too, he adds, "because we all need some hope."

Lee's character is on his back on the floor, clutching his stomach, screaming:

"Lord! Oh Lord! Oh Lord!"

Isler pushes a button on the CD player and James Brown's "King Heroin" fills the room.

I came to this country without a passport . . .

I can make a mere schoolboy forget his books

I can make a good man forsake his wife

Send a greedy man to prison for the rest of his life

* * *

A year passes and the men of Ujima can measure their lives beyond Wednesdays now.

Kevin is planning to take his GED exam in June.

Stanley won a scholarship to attend next week's "Staying Alive" summit in New Orleans hosted by the National Association of People With AIDS.

A job cleaning Metrobuses didn't come through for Lee, but he recently started a 15-week class for a commercial driver's license. He tore up the credit card application, decided it was too soon.

Isler, himself a man of unfinished business, is taking a class to earn his high school diploma.

Drew hasn't been seen much lately. Neither has Russell.

But Russell landed a telemarketing job that pays $13 an hour, and moved into his own apartment. It's been three months now and counting.