by Rick R. Reed
“I’m just trying to make conversation,” he says.
Heat rises to my cheeks. Like Fremont, I’m grateful that I’m brown and I’m sure it doesn’t show. “Sorry,” I mutter. “As I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a bar. Back in the day, I’d probably have you pressed up against the bathroom door by now, your pants around your ankles.”
He looks shocked, and then he bursts into laughter. It’s rich, deep, and velvety. “Oh man, I remember those days. I used to go to the Loading Zone on Oak Street.” He laughs again. “I engaged in a lot of bad behavior there back in the 80s, before everything changed.”
I know what “everything” is, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want to bring the mood back down. “So what other shows did you like back when you were a kid?”
He shakes his head, grinning, and I can tell he doesn’t even need to think about it. “Me? I loved Dark Shadows. I’d run home from school every day so I didn’t miss a minute. I had a scrapbook I made and posters on my bedroom wall of Barnabas and Quentin.”
I place a hand over my heart. “Quentin! Oh Lord, woof.”
“Woof is right. He was a werewolf.”
“A very, very hot one.” I think how I’d done the same thing, and a frisson of pleasure goes through me at the memory. Life, and pleasure, was so uncomplicated back then. Or at least I like to think so. “I loved it too. But it did give me nightmares sometimes. I used to dream Angelique was leaning over my bed.”
“Now, I bet that’s when you knew you were queer. Most little boys would have popped a boner at that.”
“Popped a boner? Seriously? I haven’t heard anyone use that term in ages.” I frown. “Haven’t seen anyone pop one in ages either.”
He pats my knee. “More’s the pity.”
I think how this could go somewhere, like straight to bed, if I let it. But I know I’m not ready for even the most casual hookup. It’s been too long and, absurd as I know it is, I wonder if it would feel like cheating.
I look down and see that I’ve drained my beer. Near the glass, my watch face looks up at me and tells me it’s after ten. I should be getting home. I turn to Fremont. “Hey, it was really nice chatting with you, but as an older person, I have to admit—it’s past my bedtime.”
He sticks out a lower lip, which, on him, is sexy. “Really? I was hoping we could talk more. I like you.”
“I like you too, Fremont.”
“Here’s a wild idea. You want to meet up for drinks, maybe dinner? Just to talk about vintage TV, of course.” He winks. “What do you say?” He’s already pulling out his wallet from his back pocket. He places a business card on the surface of the bar and then shoves it in front of me.
I pick it up and put it in my own wallet. “I’ll call you.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He casts his gaze downward.
I do remember that, in bars, that statement is often a brush-off. “No, I mean it. Just to prove my point, I’ll give you my number, so if I chicken out, you can call me.” My wallet is still in my hand, and I extract one of my Angels business cards and slide it toward him.
He takes it. “You busy this Thursday? I ask because there’s a place down near DePaul. It’s a little Spanish hole-in-the-wall, but Thursday is paella night, and they make a great one.”
I think about reiterating that I’ll call him, that I have to check my schedule, and then a voice inside admonishes me, telling me there isn’t a single viable reason I should say no. It’s only dinner, after all.
I smile. “Yeah, that sounds good. I love paella.”
“Eight? Meet there or you want me to pick you up?”
Oh boy, this sounds like a real date. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Sounds good.” He leans in and gives me a quick kiss. He’s aiming for my lips, but at the last minute I turn my head, and it lands on my cheek.
I touch where his lips have been, feeling the damp and the heat, and smile. “Until then,” I say and turn to leave the bar, a little light-headed.
I don’t really think it’s from the alcohol.
CHAPTER 14: ANDY
I CATCH my reflection in the front doors of my condo building. The light’s hitting just so in the late afternoon so that the double doors morph into full-length mirrors. I pause for a minute, careful to make sure none of my neighbors are around to witness my vanity. The good I see: I’m still trim, thanks to my running regimen that’s been with me most of my adult life. My skin looks healthy and tan, even though that’s just my Italian heritage peeking through. My eyes are nice. The bad: the balding at the top of my head, the glasses that never seem to look quite right, making me appear owlish, the gray in my hair, and the little goatee on my chin, once a rich dark brown, now completely silver. I give myself a little smile and add my even white teeth to the plus column.
And then I turn away, knowing I’m nervous, scared, and more than a tad excited. While Chet, my guy from OkCupid, and I are just meeting for cocktails and it can’t properly be called a date, this is my first time out to meet a man socially in a long time. And a cute man! I hope he’s wearing the baseball cap. I hope he didn’t shave off the beard. I hope he’s nice.
I hope a lot of things as I pass through the wrought iron front gate and turn right to walk over to Clark Street on my way to the Morse Avenue ‘L’ stop. Here are just a few: that I’ll be able to think of enough to say, that I won’t sound like an idiot, that I won’t remind Chet of his dad, that I won’t seem effeminate. Even though I’m not, I grew up in an age where that was truly the stereotype, and for a long time I just had the idea in my head that all gay men were big sissies—not that there’s anything wrong with that. Some of the bravest, strongest guys I know have been the drag queens. It takes strength and courage to be exactly who you are.
I hope I’ll be able to convey such ideas with the same eloquence as they appear in my thoughts. Too often, the mind/mouth connection gets screwed up, which is why I like writing so much. I can kind of practice what I’m going to say first.
And I can edit.
Real life does not afford much of an opportunity for editing.
I realize my thoughts are the psychic equivalent of babbling, and I know why—I’m nervous, more than anything else. I become aware of the sweat on the back of my neck even though it’s a cool evening, probably no more than sixty-five degrees. My heart is beating a bit faster than usual. My mouth is dry.
See, I haven’t been out in so long because I sort of gave up on dating a few years ago, after my last live-in relationship imploded. He was a big party animal with a huge heart—and the huge didn’t stop at his heart, either! Tons of fun to be with, yet on a completely different level intellectually. After two years, it just seemed like he was a stranger, and it was over. Easy. We amicably went our separate ways.
It just seemed I’d never find anyone, and I’m not even talking anyone perfect, just someone compatible. I wondered if any such bird existed, rare and exotic—and extinct as the dodo.
I fear that Chet will be yet another page in my book of disappointments—those one-nighters, half-baked first dates, and online connections I’ve indulged myself with over the years—and that the excitement I feel right now pulsing through me will be nothing more than fool’s gold.
I worry about stupid stuff, like that the plaid shirt and khakis I’ve worn are too square and I’ll simply brand myself as an over-the-hill queen the minute I walk through the bar’s door. I miss the days when I could throw almost anything on and look good, when it was effortless. Of course, back then looking good involved acid-washed jeans, a tight T-shirt, and Reebok pumps. Good Lord!
I head south on Clark, past the little shops, restaurants, and Mexican street vendors selling corn on the cob and mangos, both spiced with chili powder. And I arrive in front of the ‘L’ stop just as a southbound train rumbles overhead. I glance down at my watch and see that I have a good forty-five minutes until I’m supposed to meet Chet. Maybe the extra time will allow me to down a couple of glass
fuls of liquid courage before he arrives, and then I’ll be all loosey-goosey and charming. Yeah, isn’t that the self-perception, very mistaken, all drunks have?
I get up to the platform and find an empty seat on one of the benches. Morse Avenue is laid out before me in all its commercial glory, traffic busily going east and west. I sit facing west, and the sky at the horizon is tinged orange and pink, growing darker as it ascends—lavender, purple, and at last navy. I don’t hear the rumble of any approaching trains, so I pull out my phone and call Jules.
She answers on the first ring.
“Guess what I’m doing?” I ask after she coos “Andy” as her way of saying hello. It’s the way she always takes my calls. I can’t remember what she said before the advent of caller ID. Did I even know her before caller ID?
She pauses for a moment, presumably to think, and responds, “Leaving the scene of a crime? Off-track betting? Getting extensions put in your hair? Oh wait, you don’t have any hair.”
“Bitch.”
“So what are you doing? Heading off to the tattoo parlor? The bathhouse?”
“My, you’re feisty tonight. Have we been drinking? And no to all of the above.”
She ignores me. “I’m bored tonight. What are you doing? And more importantly, can I come with?”
I imagine walking in with Jules on my arm. That would make a good impression. One of Chicago’s finest rushes west below me, its siren blaring. I wait for it to get out of range before I respond, “I’ve got a date.”
“With a man?” Jules gasps.
“No, with a Venus flytrap!” I snap and roll my eyes.
“You never date. Is this with your long-lost love? Did you track him down?”
Her question sends a sharp pang of sadness through me. “Nah. I did a little looking but came up with nothin’.” I decide now is not the time to tell Jules that Carlos has joined the ranks of the dearly departed.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s okay. He probably wouldn’t be half the man my memory and imagination built him up to be. So it’s most likely for the best.” I glumly think how I’ll never know. I imagine Jules’s relief when I do tell her that Mr. Castillo is out of the picture for good.
“Still, I know you had your hopes up.”
I don’t say anything for a couple of seconds, thinking of Carlos and how, in a way, he’s responsible for the date or not-date I’m heading off to tonight, filled with equal parts optimism and dread. “You know, my little online search for him is what prompted me to check out OkCupid, which led me to tonight’s upcoming escapade.” I try to inject a bit of excitement into my voice.
“What’s OkCupid?”
“It’s a dating site.”
“Oh no! The guy could be a serial killer.” Jules has never been fond of online dating, in case you didn’t notice. She hasn’t yet gotten the memo that it’s what passes for courtship in the twenty-first century.
“If he looks like Ted Bundy, I’m okay with that. You know I like ’em dark and handsome.”
“You’re sick.”
I glance to my north and spy a train approaching. I can feel it in my feet as well as hear its rumble. “One of my many charms. I need to get going. ‘L’s coming.”
Jules shouts into the phone, “Call me when you get home! I want to know you’re still alive.”
“Full report later.” I press the screen to disconnect the call, the train’s thunder drowning out anything Jules might have said.
The doors yawn open before me. The train idles in a way that seems impatient.
I get on, find a seat, and think of my future waiting for me somewhere out there. I also think of Cabaret and the song “Maybe This Time.” Yeah, look at how things worked out for Sally Bowles.
I stare out the window as the train jerks out of the station, looking at the backs of apartment buildings. Lights have come on, warm yellow, in all the windows as dusk encroaches. I imagine the lives inside—people eating dinner, some settling down in front of the TV, others fighting, making love, laughing, and crying. Only after a few minutes does it occur to me that I think of no one like myself. No one alone. Somehow my worldview puts people in some kind of family unit, whether blood ties them together or not.
I see a man, his elbows on the windowsill, head sticking out of his window as the train passes by. He’s Hispanic, probably about my age, wearing the kind of sleeveless T-shirt politically incorrectly called a wifebeater. I don’t get much more than a glimpse, but I imagine he looks like Carlos.
Will this never end?
The man is dead. You need to let it go. The name Carlos should not be part of your mental vocabulary any longer, unless you meet a subsequent Carlos. Move on.
I close my eyes for a moment, hoping tonight life will toss me a bone. Fate will conspire to give me a little happiness for a change. Chet will be charming. He’ll make me laugh. He’ll be sexy, and we’ll have an instant rapport. There will be no first-meeting awkwardness, a happenstance we’ll both remark on because it’s so unusual. We’ll sit at one of the high tables along the wall, our heads close together, and we’ll talk and talk and talk. Neither of us will realize that hours have passed.
And when the time comes for us to say our good-byes, we will debate whether we should go home together. There’s a lot of physical chemistry between us. Neither can deny it. Just the touch of his knee pressed against mine will make me hard.
And we’ll agree to wait. He’ll say something corny like “It’s always better when there’s time to anticipate. Our first time will be all the sweeter because we waited for it.” And I’ll agree, staring soulfully into his warm brown eyes.
And I imagine that first time. Romantic, at his place. He’ll light dozens of candles around the bedroom and, magically, thoughts of lube and rubbers won’t even arise. There will be no trouble undressing. We’ll fall into one another’s arms, knowing instinctively what the other likes and doesn’t like.
We’ll come together.
I snort softly at my flight of fancy.
I’ve been so engrossed in my fantasy of my perfect future that I don’t even notice the train stopping at a couple more stations. We’re heading toward Belmont, where I get off. Potent Potables is a couple of blocks west of the ‘L’ stop and then a few blocks north. It’s a nice night to walk.
My fantasy has calmed me, in its own way. I know in my cynical yet rational heart that the best-case scenario for Chet is that we won’t be too awkward around each other. We’re gay men, so the expectation will be that, even if there’s just the tiniest bit of chemistry, we’ll head off to his or my bed. It’s not like we’re virgins anymore! I long ago lost count of the number of men I’ve been with, and I’m not nearly as bad as many of my gay brethren, especially the ones with the Grindr app on their phones.
The sex may or may not be good, but later, when one of us is leaving, and it will most assuredly not be in the morning—one of us will claim having to get up early; see, I know how this song goes—we’ll both promise to call soon.
If that promise is not followed up, right then and there, with an exhortation to name a specific time or place, then I know neither of us will call the other.
I shake my head. I’m becoming a curmudgeon, dour. Then I excuse myself because I’ve had enough real world experience to know the fairy—you should pardon the pun—tale doesn’t exist.
Still, maybe this time I’ll be lucky.
The train pulls into Belmont, and I stand, looking around myself for any belongings from habit, even though I didn’t bring anything along with me. I glance over at the platform, and it’s got a fairly good crowd, but not nearly as many as I’m sure there were a few hours ago, at rush hour.
The mechanical voice bursts to static-filled life, telling me which side the doors will open on, and I move over toward them. People on the platform are already milling around, impatient to get on the southbound train. There’s a punk-looking girl, with fuchsia hair that sticks up in spikes, black elbow gloves, and
a tattered dress that looks like something Betty Draper would have worn in 1958; a harried-looking guy in a suit and briefcase on his way home from a late day at the office; a couple of other people, nondescript. I glance down at the floor, waiting for the train to come to a full stop and the doors to open.
He comes in after the punk girl. I see him immediately. Our eyes meet.
I feel something akin to a jolt of electricity pass through me. I get weak in the knees and grab the bar for support. My breath is snatched away.
“C’mon, man, you gettin’ off the train or what?” I turn and see an old man wearing a dirty windbreaker, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, glaring.
I move forward and out of his way but turn to look again. It can’t be.
But it is. One constant I know is that when we recognize someone and there’s absolutely no doubt, our recognition is right. And even though the years have made their relentless march across our faces and bodies, I know in an instant it’s him.
Carlos.
He looks back at me quizzically. Those deep brown eyes! They’re still the same, even though his hair is cut shorter, the moustache is gone, and he’s put on a few pounds. He’s still handsome, alarmingly so.
I’m sure I’m standing there on the platform with my mouth hanging open, staring.
He grins at me and winks. I laugh. Just as I’m reaching my hand up, the name Carlos on my lips, the doors close, and the train lurches out of the station.
Carlos. Alive.
I want to dash down the platform, like the guy in some 1940s romantic movie, chasing after the train. I wish there was a way I could hail a cab and shout “Follow that train!” The absurdity of it causes a hysterical giggle to erupt out of me.
The platform is quickly almost deserted, and I’m so stunned I fear I may literally fall down the stairs leading to street level if I attempt them in my current state.
