Blue Umbrella Sky

by Rick R. Reed

  Yes, he’d seen Milt slip in and out of the AA meeting the night before. He was both thrilled and pissed off that he’d come. Thrilled because it showed, Billy thought, his interest in him. He was sure Milt wasn’t coming to the meeting for himself. He’d known the man for a few months now, and there was no indication of any addictive behavior. Milt barely touched alcohol, save for the occasional beer on a hot day or a glass of wine with dinner.

  Billy knew there was the chance Milt didn’t drink around him out of respect for Billy’s alcoholic status. That would make sense.

  And he also knew, big-time, that alcoholics and addicts were masters of deception. Most all of them, Billy included, could lie and keep secrets with the best of them.

  He just didn’t get a sense—in his gut—that Milt was hiding something from him.

  Ergo, he’d followed him to the meeting and listened to his story about the butterfly that referenced Milt himself. He’d snuck out right after Billy finished speaking, which lent validity to the notion that Milt had come expressly to see Billy.

  It was heartwarming in a stalkerish sort of way, if that was possible.

  He gave himself a break, grinning at what he’d just observed about himself—he had a very busy mind.

  Stop it now. You need to meditate, calm that crazy head down.

  You know what they say in meetings, in the books you read. Praying is asking God questions. Meditation is when you get your answers. But you have to be still. You have to allow yourself, and Spirit, the silence to answer, to move. You need to shut up and listen.

  Billy took a deep breath, trying to absorb these thoughts deep within himself, not just as logical thinking, but heart thinking, emotive-in-your-gut truth-telling.

  He set the timer on his phone and positioned himself so his back was against the headboard. He crossed his legs in a manner he called (despite it being politically incorrect) Indian-style, then opened his hands, placing them palms up on his lap.

  He closed his eyes and drew in several very deep, slow breaths.

  For a few moments, there was only the soft white noise of whatever machinery chugged inside his head. He could feel as much as hear his heart beat.

  The thoughts came, though, much as he knew, on a conscious level, he was attempting to keep them at bay.

  You can get through to him. You just need to do it in a way that’s gentle, like approaching a wild animal that spooks easily. Just speak softly, hold out your hand, and let him know you have no agenda (even though you do).

  “Quiet,” Billy whispered. “Quiet.” The word was his own little mantra. He spoke it, returned to his breathing, and tried to focus on an open mind.

  And… thoughts like you just had are nothing more than you attempting to control the situation. Remember what you talked about last night at the meeting? The butterfly? Surrender? Not forcing things?

  “Quiet,” Billy whispered. “Quiet.”

  Just let go. What will be, will be. Que sera, sera, Doris.

  “Quiet,” Billy whispered. “Quiet.”

  And Billy did manage to slip under for a few minutes, leaving his mind open and willing to receive. Willingness was a big part of recovery for him, maybe the biggest.

  He leaned back and felt so at ease that, by the time his phone’s timer chimed, he’d almost fallen asleep.

  He opened his eyes to a new world, sun-washed, clouded only by a memory.

  BILLY THOUGHT of all the jargon that was part of “the program.”

  Referring to Alcoholics Anonymous as “the program” was just one such example. Others were: “one day at a time,” “easy does it,” “keep coming back,” “let go and let God,” “expect miracles,” and “we are only as sick as our secrets.” There were many more, built up over the years with one purpose in mind—to keep the alcoholic or addict in a state of active recovery, rather than a state of active disease.

  The one Billy was thinking about as he slid back into the world from the relaxed state his meditation induced was an acronym. SLIP. It stood for “sobriety loses its priority” and referred to fucking up. You drank again. You used again. You let sobriety take a back seat to other concerns.

  Some people in the program regarded any falling off the wagon as a relapse. Others called it a “slip,” hence the acronym. A slip didn’t seem as bad as a relapse. A relapse seemed more full-blown—more epic in terms of failure. A relapse was going on a drinking binge that lasted for weeks, months, even years. A slip was having a beer at the company softball game. Not so bad, right? A little white lie.

  But Billy’s first sponsor, his guardian angel, Jon, who took him to his very first AA meeting, had told him there were no degrees of severity when it came to relapse. Jon used another phrase they were fond of in meetings, “one is too many and a thousand is never enough.”

  Drinking again, whether a little or a lot, was a fail. No matter how much or how little one had, drinking again put you right back into the active disease of alcoholism.

  Billy had slipped, relapsed, let sobriety lose its priority, only once. And for that he was grateful. In his years of going to meetings, he’d seen way too many “chronic relapsers” and knew how much easier a slip could become once you allowed yourself one, then two, then three, until it seemed you were back on the merry-go-round that was anything but merry.

  Yet for some reason, this sunny morning, the memory of his fall, that singular fail, was with him, strong and stinging, like a shot of Patron agave tequila.

  The ironic thing was, he’d gotten his one-year chip only the week before. He recalled the meeting where Nick, the “chip monk,” had awarded Billy the little round plastic memento of sobriety. There had been tears of joy on Billy’s part and applause and cake for the rest of the assembled. They’d sung “Happy Birthday” to him, off-key, but no song had ever sounded more beautiful.

  Everyone was happy for him because they all knew what it took for him to get there.

  Billy had walked out from that meeting on a pink cloud, feeling he was safe. He would never touch a drink again. He was cured. He simply didn’t want a drink—ever. He could picture beer mugs, shot glasses, champagne flutes, and more in his head, and they were nothing more than permutations of that semisolid known as glass. The liquid in them? Ah, he could take it or leave it. He chose to leave it, and it was no skin off his nose.

  He drank again four days later.

  The funny thing about that slip, Billy thought, was that it ambushed him, taking him by surprise.

  A slip like his could be compared to a slip outside—on an icy sidewalk on a winter’s day. One moment you were tooling along, minding your own business and sure of your footing. The future seemed clear and certain. The next moment—boom—you were on your ass.

  This one happened suddenly, with no more of a trigger than boredom. Saturday night and Billy had a gig. A gig at a small divey-type bar in Wicker Park. A gig that got cancelled because it was so frickin’ hot in Chicago that night that the bar’s AC went out and they shut down, knowing no one would want to sit around in the insufferable heat. All over the city that night were brownouts and blackouts.

  Billy sat around for a while in his un-air-conditioned studio in Rogers Park, in only his boxers, with a big fan blowing more hot air on him. His body was slick with sweat. He sipped a sweaty glass of sweet tea.

  And he was horny.

  And he couldn’t sleep, even after a double-header movie marathon on TMC—Imitation of Life followed by Written on the Wind.

  It was eleven o’clock, the temperature outside was still ninety, the humidity index almost the same, and not one leaf stirred on the big maple outside his front window. The air stunk of Lake Michigan, car exhaust, and roasted corn from the Mexican vendor cart down the street.

  Billy paced the little room he called home, feeling pent-up, bored. The image of a tall glass of beer, with a head of foam just sliding over the edge and beads of condensation up and down its sides, tortured him. Had tortured him for a while. It had come into his h
ead, unbidden, about halfway through Written on the Wind.

  And it stayed there, even though Billy knew that by giving this TV-ad image headspace, he was conjuring it into being. Life worked that way.

  He knew he should shut the TV off, dim the lights, position the fan toward the foldout bed, and crawl into it to lie naked upon the sheets, praying that by morning the air being sucked in by the fan would feel at least tepid. Praying that he would wake with dawn’s diffuse light still clean and sober….

  He knew he should call his sponsor, Jon. Early on in the program, when Billy was faced with temptation, all he needed to do was to pick up the phone and call him. God bless him, Jon never failed to answer his phone, and if need be, he’d come over to Billy’s place within a few minutes. After all, they lived in the same building. Talking to Jon, or even some of the other people on his phone list, always forced away the urges. It was as though by naming the urges, he was shaming them—the desires skittered away into their dark corners.

  But that cunning little demon inside wouldn’t let him pick up the phone. Why? Because Billy knew it would work. He’d call and Jon would talk him down. He’d ask him if he really wanted to throw away a whole year of sobriety. He’d remind him of how much he’d given over the past twelve months to work the steps and to build a new life for himself.

  Billy knew these things already. And he didn’t want to hear them.

  For to hear them would mean he’d eradicate the need. He’d go to bed. He’d be safe for another day.

  And he didn’t want that.

  He shut down his thoughts as he took a quick shower and dressed in a pair of camouflage cargo shorts and a wifebeater tank top. He slid into a pair of flip-flops. Taking stock of himself in the medicine cabinet mirror, he decided to run a handful of gel through his hair, giving himself what he thought of as a very fetching golden bedhead. He even winked at himself.

  He laughed.

  He didn’t question. He didn’t ponder. Most importantly, he didn’t slow down.

  He grabbed his keys off the desk by the door and headed out into the languid night. No breeze stirred the air or the leaves on the trees. The air felt almost like glue, like he was wading through it. Thick.

  His car, a beat-up Ford Pinto wagon, was over on Jarvis. It had wood paneling on the sides and was a dusky shade of harvest gold.

  It was ancient. But it still ran.

  As he slid into the driver’s seat, he allowed himself one thought. He’d be at Touché, the leather bar at Clark and Devon, within a few minutes.

  And damn it, he could have that beer.

  TOUCHÉ WAS crowded. Hot, sweat-slicked men pressed against one another, elbowing for room at the bar. In the back room, a full-scale orgy took place in the big room’s darkest corners. A boy who couldn’t have been more than legal age sat on the pool table, legs splayed apart, shorts around his ankles, as various men took turns sucking his porno-movie-sized cock while he calmly drank a Bud Light, almost as though he wasn’t aware of what was going on farther south on his anatomy.

  Billy wondered if the boy was high as well.

  The boy was a temptation, but not as great a one as what awaited him at the bar. As Billy approached the less-crowded bar here in the back room, he was almost trembling with need. His gut churned. He was sweating even more than the heat dictated. His eyes did a tunnel-vision sort of thing, closing in on the bear bartender in his faded Levi’s 501s, combat boots, and studded leather harness setting ’em up with a smile. He had a thick dark brown beard, hairy chest, and gorgeous dark chocolate eyes. But Billy was more interested in the taps he was effortlessly working, from which foamy magic gold poured.

  Billy was grateful that things weren’t as close in the back room. He could make his heart’s desire come true that much quicker. He could barely wait for that hoppy first swallow.

  He got up to the bar at last, got the bear’s attention, and smiled.

  “Hey, handsome, what can I get you?”

  Billy almost blurted out “beer” as they did on movies and TV, but he knew he had to be more specific. What the hell? While he was being more specific, he might as well add in a little something to jump-start the party.

  In for a penny, in for a pound…. The old adage had been Billy’s excuse for abuse for years.

  “Gimme a shot of Jack and a Bud back.”

  The bear winked. “You want that Bud on tap or in a bottle?”

  “Bottle.”

  Billy looked around the bar at all the other horny, wicked men getting loaded, the rises and falls of their conversations the husky music of desire and seduction. Anita Ward was imploring someone to ring her bell over the speakers. Somewhere near the back, a glass shattered on the floor, followed by laughter and applause.

  And then—the shot and the beer were in front of him. Hungrily, guided only by need and instinct, Billy reached for them.

  The bear smiled. “Slow on down there, stud. You want me to run a tab for you? Or you want to pay as you go?”

  Billy laughed, feeling a little sheepish. His credit and lack of funds had long ago precluded his ownership of a credit card, so a tab was out. He groped in his pockets, and his hand curled around a crumpled bill. It was a twenty.

  He had a moment of clarity and thought of all the booze that bill could buy. Not a ton, but enough to at least get a pleasant little buzz going.

  But another thought came to him, one of rationalization and control. “Keep the change,” he said.

  The bear picked it up, eyeing him—and then the bill—with a lopsided grin. “You sure?”

  Billy wasn’t sure at all. He nodded. This way I won’t overdo it.

  He downed the shot. After not having drunk for a year, it was like a line of liquid fire going down his throat. He choked a little, and the bartender chuckled.

  Billy cooled the flame with a long swallow of beer. It tasted like something the gods had made, yeasty, cold, and delicious, tamping down the heat from the bourbon.

  The bartender must have been amused, thinking Billy was a novice. He also might be attracted, but Billy was never sure about bartenders. He could never tell if they were angling for a tip or truly interested.

  In any event, he poured him another shot of Jack. And another after that.

  “I find that if you get a couple down, the ones that follow go down smoother and smoother.”

  Billy licked the whiskey from his lips and gave the bartender what he thought of as his most winning smile. “I’m Billy.” He stuck his hand out over the bar.

  “Joe.” The bartender shook his hand, wiggling his forefinger into Billy’s palm while never taking his gaze from Billy’s eyes. “Why don’t you pull up a stool? I’ve got some other guys to take care of, but it won’t take me long. Maybe we can get acquainted?”

  Okay. So it’s safe to assume he’s into me. And if I smile pretty, flirt a little, I might not have to pay for another drink tonight. Let him think we’ll go home together once the lights come up. Billy planted his ass on one of the black vinyl stools.

  He had no intention of going anywhere with Joe after the bar closed. But he’d take all the free drinks he could charm his way into.

  And it barely crossed his mind that what he was doing was little more than prostitution.

  Billy chatted with Joe for the next couple of hours—about the heat wave, the best pizza in town (Pequod’s in Morton Grove), Madonna, and the scandals taking place a few feet from the bar. During all this talk, Billy, growing increasingly soused, managed to keep up the currency he needed in exchange for the booze Joe freely poured—a lopsided grin here, a raised eyebrow there, a wink or a few seconds’ worth of meaningful eye contact.

  Old Joe, Billy thought, through the haze of his growing buzz, thought he’d be getting a little somethin’ somethin’ tonight. He almost felt sorry for the guy.

  Billy worked him like a musical instrument, and the song he was playing was Toby Keith’s “Get Drunk and Be Somebody.”

  By the fifth beer and the se
venth shot, Billy was certain Joe had fallen in love with him and was planning china patterns. He too was more than a little tipsy (after all, he’d matched Billy pretty much shot for shot) and was finding it hard to tear himself away from Billy’s charms, despite being implored, often forcefully, by outraged customers sick of being ignored.

  Billy had to admit he felt their outrage was justified. But what could he do, other than raise a glass to their irritation?

  By the time Joe shouted out, “Last call! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” Billy was plotting his escape. Even drunk, he felt shame about how he’d manipulated and used Joe, but he comforted himself with the fact that it probably wasn’t the first time Joe had fallen for such crap. Billy told himself the guy should know better.

  Joe rapped his knuckles on the bar, and when Billy looked up at him, grinned. “You want to come by my place? Smoke some weed? I just live over by Touhy Park.”

  Billy actually considered it—for all of a few seconds. For one, he was so drunk he thought he could only be a disappointment to Joe. He’d either fall asleep or throw up, maybe both, and hopefully not in that order.

  Joe didn’t need to see that. No, Billy convinced himself, he was actually doing the guy a favor by ditching him.

  Billy stood on unsteady newborn-colt legs and said, “Gotta take a whiz.”

  “Come right back. Okay?” Joe called after him, the hope in his voice heartbreaking. Almost.

  Billy did stop in the men’s room. Fortunately, it had cleared out and the bright lights revealed cigarette butts, toilet paper, a crumpled phone number, and a used condom on the concrete floor. Ah, gay love! So tender, so beautiful.

  Billy pissed, proud that all his copious stream went into the urinal and not on his flip-flop-clad feet.

  He staggered out into the front part of the bar. Only a handful of guys milled around, hoping, Billy guessed, that slim pickings would lead to their reward. Billy experienced a moment of pathos for these guys, so lonely, really, and hoping to quell that need for company by taking home a stranger. He figured the same scenario was being repeated right now at bars all over the city. Hell, all over the world.