Blink

by Rick R. Reed

  I hurry into the bedroom with Tate’s voice behind me. “C’mon, Dad! Step on the gas!”

  I ignore him, closing the door behind me and getting dressed. I look at myself in the mirror, and a strange thought comes to me. Is this it? Will no one ever want me again? I’m in my midfifties. What are the odds that I’ll stay my single self the rest of my days? And then I think about how much trouble I just went to so I’d look merely acceptable. Once upon a time, I hardly had to think about it to look great. I could fall out of bed with a dark five-o’clock shadow, mussed hair, a pair of plaid boxers, and a white T-shirt and look fabulous.

  Where did all the years go? I hear Tate outside my bedroom, pacing. I know he’s eager to get to his friend’s party, and I shouldn’t make him wait any longer. It makes me almost teary-nostalgic to think of those years again and how fast Tate grew up. It doesn’t seem so long ago that I could sling him on my hip and carry him around. It was yesterday, wasn’t it, when Alison and I made a secret trip to his kindergarten and watched him from the car, wearing his little OshKosh B’Gosh bib overall shorts and tiny T-shirt, playing on the seesaw at recess?

  The older I get, the faster the sand travels through the hourglass.

  I open the door to find Tate, predictably, waiting by the front door. He’s in cargo shorts and a faded soft blue button-down and flip-flops. He could turn heads anywhere. He looks me up and down and gives a little whistle and a grin. “Looking good, Dad.”

  I feel a burn rise to my cheeks and wave the compliment away. “Ah, you’re just being kind to your elder.”

  Tate rolls his eyes before opening the door. “If you could hear what some of my friends say….”

  I catch up to him as he heads out into the hallway. “What do they say?”

  “I don’t want to give you a big head.”

  “Already got one. Tell me.”

  We trot down the stairs, and Tate waits, building suspense, I guess. “They all say I’ve got a hot dad. You’re a DILF, and that makes me shudder, to be honest.”

  I don’t want to appear ignorant, so I don’t ask him what a DILF is. We head off into the warm spring night, cooled a bit by a breeze that rustles the newly sprung leaves in the trees. Then my mind quickly translates the acronym for me and I laugh, pathetically pleased.

  “Like I said,” Tate says out of the corner of his mouth and reading my mind, “Don’t get a big head.”

  AS WE near the building where the party will be held, I feel myself seize up a bit with nerves. Over the years I’ve become such a homebody that I can’t recall the last party I’ve been to. Sure, there have been occasional dinner parties at the home of a coworker or a game night at Jules’s with some of her friends, but a party where you stand around with drinks in your hands and mingle? It’s been forever.

  “How many folks do you think will be at this shindig?”

  Tate is searching the intercom directory, presumably for his friend’s dad’s name. He’s distracted as he says, “Abra said there’ll probably be around fifty people at this party. People. Party. Dad, try to remember.”

  “What?” I ask, but I’m drowned out by a metallic voice issuing forth from the speaker. “Identify yourself,” and then laughter.

  “It’s Tate.”

  We’re buzzed in, and we go up.

  We’re greeted at the door by one of the most beautiful young women I think I’ve ever laid eyes on. She reminds me of a young Halle Berry. Her eyes light up when she sees my son, and she throws her arms out to him. “Tate!” she squeals, and I have to wonder if she doesn’t see my boy as more than just friend fodder. Don’t go there, girl. At least not without first having talked to my ex-wife, I think warningly.

  They hug, and Tate, surprisingly, gives her a kiss that lasts long enough that I wonder if there’s tongue involved. The kiss reminds me that my son, as a man, is a bit of a mystery to me and probably always will be.

  They pull away, and Abra casts her eyes coquettishly down at the floor. She then looks back at me and smiles. “You must be Tate’s dad, Mr. Slater.” She holds out a perfectly manicured hand.

  I take it and shake. “Please. Just call me Andy.”

  She gestures us in and closes the door behind her. The place is a showroom, minimalist yet homey all at once, and buzzing with music and animated voices. No one looks over at us as we enter. Abra leans close to me to be heard over the music—Beyoncé? “Tate’s told me so much about you. He says you’re a really good writer.”

  “Ah, I just shill for a healthcare company downtown. Newsletters, brochures, and web copy. Nothin’ special, believe me.”

  “Don’t go being all modest on me, Mr. Slater. Tate’s let me read some of the short stories and poems you wrote in college. They’re really good!”

  I’m struck speechless. And I’m touched. A long time ago, I had given Tate some of the stuff I penned back when I was a creative writing major. When he told me he was going to study English in college, I thought he might want to familiarize himself with some of the old man’s work, back when the old man dreamed of being the next Hemingway—or at least Stephen King. The fact that he showed them to a friend tugs at my heart. That boy is always full of surprises.

  We go into the party, and it isn’t long before Tate has given me the slip. I’m not surprised or resentful, since many of the people here are his own age. Besides, the plan is for him to spend the night at my place anyway, so there’s no need for me to cling to him like he’s the dad and I’m the kid.

  I wander over to the kitchen island and take in the hors d’oeuvres. Abra’s father must be quite the gastronome. I have always had my own little love affair with food, and before I dig in, I pause to admire the spread laid out. There are little toasts with Serrano ham, olives, and orange wedges, what looks like polenta topped with perfectly seared mushrooms and goat cheese, spring onions and radishes, stuffed piquillo peppers, scallops wrapped in bacon…. And I need to stop cataloging the food and begin eating it. I grab a plate.

  Just as I do, a tall and very striking black man comes up beside me. “Hello. I’m Fremont St. George, Abra’s dad.”

  I put the plate down to shake his hand and take in that warm smile. I grab my plate again and start loading it up. Yes, I’m shy, except when it comes to food. “Did you make all this yourself? It looks amazing.”

  “It is amazing. And no, I had nothing to do with it except whipping out my American Express card. I have some great caterers on speed dial.”

  “Well, it looks like they outdid themselves tonight.” I pause and close my eyes in rapture and point to something I hadn’t previously spotted. “Are those what I think they are?”

  “Mini potato pancakes with cream cheese, gravlax, and dill. Is that what you thought?”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” I say and stuff one into my mouth. Heaven.

  Fremont laughs, and I think James Earl Jones has nothing on this guy in the voice department. “You do like your food, don’t you? Although I have to admit, you’d never know it to look at you.”

  I flash him a smile. “I run. And run. And run. It’s what allows me to eat like a pig.”

  “Do you do anything else like a pig?”

  “Oh my God. You didn’t just say that.” I lean closer to him and whisper, “Our kids are here!”

  He pats my arm. “I suppose you’re right. We should show a little decorum.” He gives me one of those looks—the kind that peers right down inside your soul—and I think maybe I won’t be in such a hurry to leave this party after all. He is a fine piece of work, this man. I return his gaze and feel there’s a bit of a connection here.

  “You’re gonna need something to wash that all down with,” Fremont says, eyeing my plate. “What’s your poison, sir?”

  I look down and see that, all the while we’ve been talking, I’ve been piling on the appetizers. The plate is loaded down, practically groaning under the weight of the heaped-up food upon it. “Got any beer?”

  “I think I could rustle up a
Stella Artois for you. Unless you’d like something darker. Then I could offer you a Guinness.”

  I’d like something darker all right, I think, drinking him in, but I don’t say words to that effect. I remind myself Tate is standing not ten feet away, laughing with a group of his friends, his arm casually thrown over Abra’s shoulders.

  “Um, a Stella sounds lovely.”

  “Coming right up.” I watch him head over to the refrigerator, thinking that Fremont looks as good going as he does coming. Wouldn’t it be wild if I ended up finding true love with Tate’s best friend’s father?

  When he comes back, I reach for the green bottle in his hand. As I do, my plate tips a bit. On account of its being so overloaded, one of the polenta squares topples off, hitting first my shirt and then my new sneakers. As any good gay man would do in such a situation, I gasp, “Prada!”

  Fremont snickers. “I’m sorry.” He grabs a napkin off the island and wipes at my midsection, removing the mushroom residue from my pullover. “There, it looks like I got it all out.”

  “Yeah, I think so.” His hand stays firmly on my stomach, though, and our eyes do their little dance again. I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday. I know when I’m being flirted with. So I’m bold enough to say, “Are you single, Mr. St. George?”

  He replies that he is.

  “Well, then maybe you and I should get together for dinner sometime soon?”

  “I know the perfect place. They make a great paella.”

  “You said the magic word! When?” I know that, unless you pin them down, people often tend to “forget” casual plans made at a party, and I do not want to let this opportunity slip between my fingers.

  “How about Thursday night?”

  I smile and realize my grin is so wide, it’s probably making me look like a chimp. I turn it down a notch, say, “Perfect,” and then remember my shoes. I look down and see that the butter the mushrooms must have been sautéed in is being soaked up by the suede trimming the sneakers. I look back at Fremont. “I need to get these shoes some soap and water… stat!”

  He chuckles and then points behind me. “There’s a bathroom right off the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.” I hurry over to the room he’s indicated and see, to my dismay, the door is shut. I jiggle the handle. This may not be an emergency in the traditional sense, but it’s worse—a designer disaster. I can hear someone flushing, so I’m happy I don’t have to resort to plan B—using the kitchen sink while all and sundry get an eyeful of my plight.

  I hear the lock being flipped, and then the door opens.

  My mouth drops open. “It’s you,” I say, shocked voice barely above a whisper.

  Carlos cocks his head at me and gives me a quizzical smile. “In the flesh.” He steps aside, presumably so I can use the bathroom. “Do we know each other?”

  I try to hide my disappointment. But I doubt I’m having much luck concealing the fact that I am completely dumbstruck. Words are elusive. I manage to blurt, “Carlos Castillo.”

  “That’s right. Have we met? You do look familiar.”

  Someone—a middle-aged woman, too skinny, in a black dress and pearls—jostles us. “Sorry! But are either of you going to use that restroom? I have a bladder the size of a pea.”

  Carlos steps out of the doorway and gestures for her to go inside. As for me, the Pradas may be a lost cause. But I don’t care. This is more important.

  Carlos and I move into the kitchen area and stand by the refrigerator. He’s grinning at me, waiting for me to respond to his questions.

  “On the train,” I blurt out.

  He looks me over more fully, then snaps his fingers. “Yes! The other night. I was getting off at Belmont. You were getting on.” He leans in and whispers, “You’re quite the flirt.”

  My heart sinks, and it’s a good thing because up until this moment it was lodged firmly in my throat. He doesn’t know me, not from before, anyway. I guess I’ve changed a bit in thirty some years. He has too—yet I’d know those eyes anywhere. They’ve haunted me most of my life. But I can’t tell him that. It would be creepy.

  I try to laugh, and I fear it comes out more as a cough. I roll my eyes. “You’re right. I am. But when a good-looking man crosses my path, I just can’t help myself. I have one of those faces that hide nothing. I could never play poker. Or be an actor.” Stop babbling. I stick out my hand. “I’m Andy Slater.”

  He shakes it, and a little pulse charges through me at this simple touch. There’s a quick flash: his eyes above me, our bodies connected in a line of heat and satin smoothness in a darkened bedroom with rain tapping against the window. I reluctantly let him take his hand back.

  “And you already know my name. How is that?”

  How do I explain? My mother always taught me the truth is always best. I have nothing to lose. Who expected this moment to come tonight, of all nights? I searched and searched and searched for him, and then here he is, delivered, really, by my very own flesh and blood. I am about to remind him of our association and near miss from three decades ago when Tate comes up to us.

  “Dad?” He looks at Carlos, gaze moving up and down his tall frame. “Are you busy? Because there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Tate’s timing couldn’t possibly be more awful. Yet I hate to turn him away. “Are they leaving soon?”

  “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Because I want to talk to Carlos here for a few more minutes—”

  Carlos interrupts. “No. Go ahead. Be with your son.”

  I give him a look, and he raises his eyebrows.

  Tate chuckles. “It’s okay, Dad. We’re out on the balcony. Just come on out when you’re ready. And don’t be alarmed if you catch a whiff of Mary Jane on the breeze.” He walks away, calling over his shoulder, “Sorry to interrupt!”

  “Your son seems nice, very handsome. A chip off the old block, eh?” Carlos says. “So many gay men here tonight with children. I almost feel like an outsider. I’m just a boring old fag who stuck with guys my whole life. No chance at procreation.”

  “Tate’s my pride and joy,” I tell him. “I was married—to a woman—years ago. No regrets because I got him out of the bargain.” I cock my head and think for a moment of Alison, her friendship, and how I never really stopped loving her. “No regrets at all, really. It was a good marriage, except for the gay thing. I do regret that my own confusion had to hurt people. But we’re all close now, and we weathered the storms that came with my coming out at the ripe old age of thirty.”

  I wonder briefly if I have other regrets. That night with Carlos, so long ago? If I had been single then, where would it have led?

  Carlos squeezes my shoulder, which gives me an insane urge to lean in and kiss him. All at once the sense memory of the taste of his lips and tongue rushes back. How can I remember after all this time? Is it just my imagination?

  He says, “You were telling me how you knew my name. Have you been to Angels?”

  I wonder if he’s talking about some near-death experience. If perhaps I saw him “in the light.” While I did see a buttery yellow aura around him once as I stared at him on the ‘L,’ I somehow think his reference to angels is more pedestrian. “Angels?”

  “It’s the not-for-profit I work for. We help out people with AIDS and HIV with medical care, food, housing, stuff like that.”

  I nod. “Sure. You do good work. Part of my United Way donation at work goes to you guys.”

  “I appreciate that.” He stares down at the floor, and when I don’t say anything after several seconds, he says, “Well, I should probably get back to my date. Wouldn’t want to make him jealous.” He winks. “Or maybe I would. A little jealousy can spark a lot, if you know what I mean.”

  Oh. He’s here with someone. Of course he is. Look at him. You’re probably just one of many, many past conquests. Of course he wouldn’t remember you all these years later. I contemplate just letting him go, in every sense of the word.

 
But I can’t. I lay a hand gently on his arm as he retreats away from me. “Carlos?”

  He turns back. I bite my lip, and then I say, “You really don’t remember me?”

  “I told you—sure. We crossed paths the other night. On the ‘L.’” He smiles and turns to move away again. He probably thinks of me as a nutcase by now. And maybe he’s right. There’s a fine line between nutcase and hopeless romantic.

  “You’re right. We crossed paths on the ‘L.’ More than once….”

  He turns back. I stare at him to see if what I say might jog his memory a bit. And I can see he’s thinking, mulling it over. His eyebrows come together in concentration. He looks at me again. “I’m sorry….”

  “It’s okay. It was more than thirty years ago.”

  A flicker of something passes across his handsome features. “On the Congress Line?”

  I laugh. “Yes!”

  “I used to take that line to work, back when I taught school.”

  “Right. You got off at Racine.”

  “How did you know that?” And then I see the puzzle pieces snapping together. At last he remembers. Even though he hasn’t said so yet, I can tell by the expression on his face, the way he looks at me. Isn’t there some phrase about the “dawn of recognition”? Carlos has that.

  “You’re Andy.” He repeats, almost a whisper, “Andy.” Our gazes lock, and he slowly shakes his head. “You used to cruise me on the train on the way to work. I do remember you, always with your nose in a book except when you were undressing me with your eyes.” He laughs.

  “I wasn’t cruising you,” I blurt out, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Back then I didn’t even know how.”

  “Oh, you knew how, whether you realized it or not. Those eyes are made for cruising.” Carlos thinks for a minute, and I surmise more and more is coming back. He nods, although it’s almost to himself. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I remember now.” He stares at me for a long time, and the wet brown eyes remind me suddenly of a deer. I don’t think thirtysome years have lessened the attraction I feel one bit. If anything, he looks even better now. The graying of his hair, close-cropped, the still fit body and broad shoulders—although he’s carrying a bit more weight around his middle—all still look delectable. I look at his face, and the party, the music and voices around us, dissolve. Carlos is so attractive to me because I can see beneath the years, to the young man he once was, the vulnerability and the innocence. I recall his joy that one morning when I followed him off the train.