A few weeks before the awards ceremony where Nathan and Marissa argued, the coalition held a massive demonstration in Time Square. This AIDS protest was meant to challenge the candidates of 1992 who were seeking their parties' presidential nominations.

Sean reported to Time Square, that cold early-morning hour. The shadows were dense, like water in a dark stagnant pool. The sidewalks of Broadway were so deserted the place was like a ghost town. The side streets, however, were filled with police formations. Many of the cops rode on horseback. Patrol wagons lined up. Sean was looking for a receptacle where he could throw out the coffee cup he had just drained.

"Sean!" a lesbian suddenly said. "Are you getting arrested today?"

"No, I have too many arrests to my name." He had four. "I feel I better let others do that for a while. I'm here to be support."

"Oh, great," said the woman mechanically. "I'm coordinating things, so when other guys get here, I'll need to speak to you support people for about five minutes."

Sean had anxiety about the coalition's future, but this demonstration promised to be a big one. He was getting bored with street activism, nevertheless, and he wondered, wasn't there something he could do in the coalition that would be more relevant to the cause?

A number of loyal members were feeling restless with the group. Some felt they were outgrowing it. Some felt the times were accommodating their demands, and that AIDS activism was therefore obsolete. Also, a few worried that one day their arrest records might lead to jail time, rather than the usual sentence of community service or fines. That was a thought that haunted Sean.

A line of mounted policemen clopped down Broadway.

Sean shivered, keeping an eye on the time. He overheard two activists argue on a touchy subject: should activists increase their militancy, and if so, should that include violent tactics?

Sean looked away. He hated arguments of any kind, especially that one. His eyes drank in the gloomy haze that lay over the district, and he lifted his face to the image of the golden light breaking over the dark skyscrapers. He could feel the fine mist on his face.

Hundreds more activists arrived, up and down the street. Sean noticed Nathan near a donut stand. He knew he was one of those treatment activists loyal to the elite corps.

Sean's curiosity about drug activism had grown, lately, because he thought he could be more helpful to Gabe if he understood treatment issues better. He'd be out of his league, of course, but he wanted to join the coalition's treatment committee, anyway, or possibly the elite corps, if they'd let him. (Membership to the elite corps was by invitation, only.)

So right there, on the street, Sean had an urge to approach Nathan, to sound him out about the idea.

Nathan was in a terrible mood, though. The only reason why he was doing this demo was to please his lover, Reggie, who couldn't be there. (Reggie had exams to study for.) So in other words, Nathan was Reggie's reluctant proxy.

Nathan, like Sean, would not be getting arrested. He had a friend to race off to, later, whose health had taken a turn for the worse. Nathan was consumed with worries about him. And Nathan resented half of the activists there that morning, because he felt they had alienated many of the veterans in the treatment branch of the movement.

Sean made a move toward Nathan. Nathan saw him out of the corner of his eye. He then flashed Sean a perturbed look. Sean recoiled. Activists in both camps were giving each other those little snubs, lately.

Sean felt demoralized, and turned away.

Suddenly, there was a smattering of applause, for a member had arrived who had done a zap of Governor Clinton just three days before, while Clinton was in New York City. The activist's photograph, nose-to-nose with Clinton in a shouting match, made the papers the day after. Sean didn't know this man well, but he had always admired him from afar. He was one of the veterans of the coalition who was now leaning toward the elite corps. Even so, the mere presence of this high-powered activist made Sean feel the coalition was it's old self, again, at least for the time being.

A half-hour later, the big demo began. Time Square was inundated by hundreds of noisy activists in what was sure to be a major news event.

"Holy mother of you-know-what!" laughed a wealthy businessman trapped in a limo. His colleague sat beside him, her mobile phone virtually attached to her ear. She was laughing and gasping at the spectacle of the demonstrators swarming around them.

This man was the Midwestern partner who had met with a Washington-D.C. staffer, a few years back, when Reagan ruled, and Iran-Contra erupted.

The woman in the car was a vice president at a company that was co-managing a deal with the partner.

"Driver, where are you taking us? We have to get to the airport, for God's sake!" she said.

Meanwhile, the Midwestern partner caught sight of a placard showing a newspaper picture of Governor Clinton nose-to-nose with the angry coalition member.

The partner had heard rumors that Clinton's wife had been embroiled in bad bank and bad land deals in Arkansas. The partner couldn't help but flick his eyebrows a little as he saw the picture of Clinton bobbing up and down on the placard. He was reminded of the savings and loan disaster that had hit the nation, from coast-to-coast.

"Money for AIDS!" screamed an activist.

The partner shook his head and giggled.

"Money to pay off the savings and loan debt, first, you ass-holes," he thought. The car idled, as the demonstrators blocked the traffic. The police swung into crisis-mode.

The partner thought of a funny image, just then. He had that unscrupulous friend in Florida whose own S&L bank went under. The law had literally apprehended his friend while he was playing golf, one morning. The satirical side of the partner could envision the great chase: the authorities on foot while the friend tried to escape in the Rolls Royce golf caddy he prized so much!

The vice president beside the partner lowered her window and tried to make nice to some of the demonstrators. "Hey, watcha got there? A leaflet?... Health issues, hunh? AIDS... I worked in Texas, recently to open up more health facilities for the elderly. I know how important health issues are. Good luck on that. Say, my colleague and I are eager to get to the airport. Do you think you could break ranks just a wee-bit, so we can ---"

"No!" roared the activists. The vice president rolled up the window.

The Midwestern partner was chortling.

"Are these protesters never satisfied?" said the vice president.

"Let me see that flier..." he answered. "It says here the government spent only about eight hundred and fifty million on research this past year. Bush wants to cut that amount."

"Eight hundred and fifty million isn't enough?"

"This flier quotes one of the activists as saying, that's how much we spend when we build a single B2 bomber!"

"I don't believe it," said his colleague.

"It says so right here! Proof!" laughed the partner, playing the devil's advocate.

"Who has time for this?" said the vice president. "Proof! The only thing it proves is what a pain in the ass these activists are!"

"Watch your language!" laughed the partner. The two of them begged the driver to find another route.