by Rick R. Reed
So long ago, and yet it seems almost no time has passed. It’s paradoxical.
“You were getting married.” He looks off in the direction of where Tate has gone.
“Yeah, as I said, it didn’t work out. Not surprisingly.” I shrug. “I didn’t know who I was then.”
He smiles, but there’s something winsome in it that almost approaches sad. “Missed connections,” he says, and I think he must be referring to how close we came, all those years ago.
Now that what I’ve obsessed about lately is standing right here in front of me in the flesh, as he said only moments ago, I’m not sure where to take this. Maybe if he hadn’t mentioned being here with a date, I might ask if he wanted to get out of here, go get a cup of coffee or a drink somewhere. But that wouldn’t be, as Tate would say, cool. Would it also be uncool to ask Carlos out for later? Not as a date or anything, but just so we could talk, catch up, see if there was really anything there back in 1982.
There certainly was for me.
Before I can ponder my next move any further, Fremont St. George steps up to us, grinning. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, and I wonder how many drinks he’s had tonight. I’m stunned when he slides an arm somewhat possessively around Carlos’s shoulders. “I see you two have met. Did you know each other before?”
I try to swallow and find there’s no spit in my mouth. “This is your date?” I look at Carlos, hoping the confusion and hurt aren’t written large across my features.
Carlos links his fingers through Fremont’s, the ones over his shoulder. “Yeah, we just met, though.”
“No commitments—yet.” Fremont winks at me, and I think what an ass and not in a good way. Here he has this gorgeous man with him tonight, and he’s flirting with and making a date for next week with me? Not a chance. Not now.
I feel the little bit I’ve drunk and eaten roil in my gut. My fight-or-flee impulse kicks in, along with a rush of adrenaline. I need to get out of here.
Suddenly it’s as though there are too many people in the room; everything is too close. I’m too confused to examine my feelings carefully. I fear if I stay, some dumb part of me will want to warn Carlos away from Fremont, and that’s just ridiculous, or self-serving, or both.
I realize I never answered Fremont. “No. Carlos and I met, wow, must be thirty-two years ago.”
“Really?” Fremont asks. Carlos is staring at me, wondering what I will say next, I’m sure. “Is there a story there?”
I just shake my head. “My son wanted me to meet someone. I think he’s out on the balcony. Do you mind?” And I hurry away from the “couple,” wondering how new they actually are. I have no right to feel jealous or possessive, but I do anyway. The heart doesn’t know from reason and common sense, does it?
Out on the balcony, I look for Tate. There are a few people out here. It’s a broad tile-floored space that looks onto the water and, farther south, the lights of downtown Chicago. Under other circumstances, I might pause to admire the familiar view, no less stunning because of having already seen it a million times.
I spy Tate down at one end. He’s sitting with a young guy, and the two of them have their heads in close. They appear to be deep in conversation. Tate’s hand rests on the other guy’s leg. Tate’s friend, I can tell even in the dim light spilling out from the condo, is a redhead, with close-cropped hair and a beard. He’s wearing a checked shirt and jeans, Cons. Cute. I wonder if Tate wanted me to meet him because he’s someone he’s interested in. That assumption is bolstered by the fact that they look so intense, staring into one another’s eyes.
I remember being that young. I envy Tate just a little, not for the hunk he appears to have landed but for his innocence and self-acceptance. In this day and age, even though it’s still sometimes a struggle, and oppression and hate continue to be out there in force, my son at least grew up comfortable in his own skin, not feeling he had to hide who he really was lest he be shunned. He’s told me about his years at New Trier high school and how he was out to all of his friends, for whom his orientation was no big deal, just another variation on the human theme. My own high school experience, in contrast, couldn’t have been more different. I was teased and bullied, even though I vehemently denied being gay. The jokes, shoves, and laughter behind my back didn’t make me angry, but ashamed. They made me hate myself more.
Tate spots me staring. He smiles and gestures for me to come over. I do, feeling like attending this party has suddenly gone into the realm of a dream. Or a nightmare. I feel the absurd urge to pinch myself to make sure it’s not.
The two young men stand, and the redhead extends his hand to shake mine.
“Dad, this is Kelly Rigby.”
We say our hellos. “He’s the guy I told you I met at Potent Potables.”
Kelly speaks. “Couldn’t keep me away from you, Tate.”
“You say the sweetest things,” Tate says, grinning at the guy. It’s adorable and touching. I can see how much Tate wants to please him.
Yet the feeling of wanting to get out of here has not left me. If anything, it’s intensified. Normally I would stand and chat for a bit with Tate’s friend, Kelly, find out more about this man my son is obviously smitten with, but I just can’t.
I glance back inside and look around for Carlos. I don’t see him. I don’t see Fremont either, and I wonder where they’ve gone. Maybe they’ve found a vacant bedroom and are ripping one another’s clothes off? I kick myself internally for thinking that way and try to banish the paradoxically hot and sickening image from my brain.
“Dad? Kelly’s a writer too. He works for one of the ad agencies downtown.”
“Junior copywriter. No biggie.”
I smile, hoping my distraction and the anxiety I feel doesn’t show. “Tate, I….” My voice trails off as I grope for an excuse. I land on the old standby. “I have a terrible headache. It just came on me all of a sudden.”
“Oh no.” Tate’s eyebrows come together in concern. He frowns. “Do you want to go?”
“Yes. Yeah, I do.” I see Tate glance longingly at Kelly. “But you stay. Have fun. I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Are you sure?” I’m smart enough to know that the last thing Tate wants to do is leave the party. I’m also smart enough to know the pullout couch in my office will stay shut up tonight, if I can read signals on young male faces.
I feel very alone and very old as I turn away from them. Over my shoulder, I tell Kelly it was nice meeting him and I hope we meet again soon, under better circumstances. “Have Tate bring you around for dinner sometime.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Slater.”
I hurry back into the hubbub of the party, glad I don’t have to cast around for a coat. I can beat a hasty retreat. The cacophony of pop music and conversation is grating. Normally I would never contemplate so rude a move as to leave a party without thanking the host, but these, I think, are extraordinary circumstances.
I pause by the door and finally see Carlos and Fremont in animated conversation over by the sink. Fremont’s hand rests lightly on Carlos’s waist.
I throw open the door, go out, and close it softly behind me. I rush down the stairs and out into the night, thinking of that old Simon and Garfunkel song that begins with something along the lines of greeting the darkness, an old friend.
It’s apt.
CHAPTER 19: CARLOS
I WATCH as Andy hurries out the door. Even in this briefest of glimpses, I can sense there’s something lost about him. I know he’s upset. What I don’t know is why. I’d like to say I’m not so self-centered as to think it might be about me, but I’d be lying if I didn’t wonder. His demeanor changed so completely when Fremont came up to us and put his arm around me. I’ve seen jealousy before, and that green-eyed monster definitely raised its head.
But still, common sense tells me the notion is absurd. Here’s a man I met on the train years and years ago, had a brief dalliance with, and ran into again. Why on earth would he be jealous?
No, if Andy was upset at all, maybe it was because of his son—or something in his life that I would logically have no idea whatsoever about.
“Hey,” Fremont says. “What’s up with you? You’re a million miles away.”
I look back at him and laugh self-consciously, feeling caught. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just saw that guy, Andy, slip out the door without saying good-bye. He seemed, I don’t know, a little off. I hope he’s okay.”
“How do you know him again?”
I tell him, the memory images sharpening and coming into better focus as I speak. “We had a little hookup and never saw each other again.” I leave out the part I just remembered—the letter he gave me that night and how it was a testimony to Andy’s confusion and pain and how he wanted to do the right thing and proceed with getting married. Even back then, it seemed hopelessly naïve and doomed to failure.
Obviously, it was.
“He must have been somethin’,” Fremont hoots. “He’s hot now. I can imagine how hot he must have been with three decades erased from him.” Fremont gives me a look, kind of like he’s weighing my reaction to what he says next. “We flirted a little, you know.”
“You did?” I laugh, but inside it hurts just a bit. I know Fremont and I simply had dinner once, a nice conversation in a bar, and a pretty nice night together, so there’s no reason to feel we’re going steady or anything like that. But still, it rankles a bit that Fremont invited me here for his party and he’s flirting with other guys. Is Andy the only one?
He waves me away, and I think he’s noticed the sickliness of my grin at his admission. “It was nothin’. You know I only have eyes for you.” He leans in and gives me a quick peck on the mouth.
I push him away. “Yeah, right.”
“What? You’re not jealous, are you?”
Am I? Again, I remind myself that I have no cause. I have no standing in this matter, as they might say in a court of law. Yet the fact that Fremont flirted with someone else when I was only feet away seems, at the very least, rude. And maybe this guy isn’t as wonderful as I first made him out to be.
“Don’t be jealous, Carlos.” Fremont leans closer, and I can smell whisky on his breath. “He did ask me out, but I said no.” He leans closer, and I wonder how much he’s drunk tonight. “I told him you and me were just getting started.”
I know it’s a lie. Of all people to pop into my head is my afternoon guilty pleasure, Judge Judy. She’s always telling the people who come before her, “If it doesn’t make sense, it’s not true.”
Judging from the looks Andy gave me when I opened that bathroom door and how much he obviously wanted me to remember him, I doubt he asked Fremont out. Maybe it was the other way around? That’s much more possible. Fremont is a free agent, after all. We have no strings binding us.
Oh, why am I even mulling these things over? Maybe Andy did ask him out; maybe he initiated the flirtation. This would have been before he even knew I was at the party.
What does it matter? That’s what I don’t understand.
I place my hands on Fremont’s shoulders, moving him out of my space and up against the kitchen counter. He can use the support.
“I’m going to go get some air. I’m not a big party person, and I need a little break. How do I get down to the beach?”
“I’ll come with you!” Fremont says. He grabs a bottle of Courvoisier off the counter behind him. “It’s a private beach.” He raises his eyebrows and gives me a significant look that I think, in as short as the space of an hour ago, might have tickled me. “We can have a little party.”
But a party is exactly what I don’t want. “No.”
He looks almost startled. I try to soften my refusal with a smile. “I just need to get away, get some air. Just for a few minutes.”
Fremont regards me with a look that says he really doesn’t understand.
And that’s where you and I are different, my friend. Extrovert versus introvert. That’s really hit home with me tonight. Not that the two can’t complement each other and have a harmonious relationship, but there’s more I’ve seen tonight of you that raises other red flags. You’re a bit of a dog and maybe a bit of a drunk too.
Of course I say none of this to him. “Do you get it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Not really. Why come to a party if you just want to be by yourself?”
The fact that he has to ask this question makes me wonder if he could ever really understand me. Once again, I think of Harry and how he always knew instinctively, when we were in social situations, when I was done, when I needed to get away by myself.
Harry was the same way.
“I don’t know why.” I sigh. “I just do.”
“Have at it, then.” He points to a door to the right of the balcony. “That leads to the utility stairs. Just take those until you come to the bottom and head on outside. Enjoy your solitude.” He walks away from me, taking his bottle of liquor with him. I wonder if I will return to the party.
I follow his instructions and head for the door. The staircase outside it has none of the elegance of Fremont’s condo or the lobby. It’s just gray-painted concrete with an iron handrail. Other residents have stored boxes, brooms, and mops outside their doors. One of them has a needlepointed sign affixed to their door. Born in Sin? Come on in!
I hurry down the stairs and am grateful as I push the door open and emerge onto an empty beach, silent.
An enormous sense of relief washes over me as I step out onto the sand. The wash of the waves, rhythmic and soft, on the beach’s edge is soothing, even though I can still distantly hear the revelers at Fremont’s party. I feel liberated from them out here. I breathe in the air, damp and now cool, filling my lungs with not only its marine essence but also with serenity.
It’s taken me many years to realize that my own company is something I prize. Loneliness is for losers.
I take a few steps out onto the sand and then sit down on it to pull off my cowboy boots and roll up the legs of my jeans. I pad barefoot to the water’s edge, and a wave rushes up to meet me. I give a little gasp as the icy water covers my toes and insteps and jump back. No matter how many years I’ve lived here, the shock of these freezing waters never fails to startle.
I start walking south along the beachfront with the city lights to act as a sort of guide and beacon. It isn’t long before I come to a low wall, whitewashed, that must be the dividing line between Fremont’s private beach and the one just over it, which belongs to all of us. Indeed, I can see, off in the distance, a cluster of people sitting near the water’s edge. They are little more than shadows, but their laughter and murmurs of conversation reach me almost like snatches of a dream.
I turn and head back. There’s a bench near the exit door, and I plop down on it, grateful for many things—to be off my feet, to have this nighttime view, with its dim illumination yet fierce unspoiled beauty, and to allow myself a few moments just to think.
Of course I think of him. Andy. And I remember. That time in my life when we first met was such a good one. Life was a road untraveled, almost all of it still before me. I had yet to see its tragedies and heartaches, yet to experience the inevitable decline that comes to all of us as we grow older. I was full of hope and promise. Anything could happen. Anything was possible.
That beautiful boy on the ‘L’ could be mine. I knew it from the moment our gazes locked on that crowded train. I was still young enough, naïve enough, and romantic enough to think it was possible. In that brief connection of our eyes, I read a whole novel, an epic poem to love, unfettered by reality.
That’s why it was such a cold and harsh slap in the face when real life intruded just when I thought I was making my romantic vision come true. When Andy put a stop to our lovemaking, because, if I remember right, it was interrupted by a call from his mother, cold hard facts intruded on the little island of fantasy upon which we had moored ourselves.
Everything changed after that phone call. I could see the guilt and s
hame stamped on Andy’s features as plainly as his nose. It was obvious he was sickened by what we had done so far and resolved not to let it go any further.
I remember my disappointment. But who I am now thinks I accepted everything too readily. I was a product of those times, so long ago and yet not, when being gay was something you kept hidden. If you let it show, or were unable to not let it show, you opened yourself up to, at best, ridicule and snickering behind your back and, at worst, rejection and the threat of both physical and emotional pain and trauma. Both those things could leave deep scars.
Back then I thought—we all did—we deserved that treatment. Maybe deserved is not exactly the right word. Perhaps it was more the fact that we accepted such treatment as our lot in life. If we were gay, we had to accept all that came with it—and most of it, not so long ago, was bad.
The kids who come into Angels these days are different. They don’t have quite the same issues I did when I was their age. Oh sure, bullying and hate still exist, but not in as full a measure. And their reaction to it is different—they no longer accept it as a rite of passage for being different, but as something to be outraged about, something they are justified in calling out and fighting back against.
Yet what I wouldn’t give to relive that charged moment on the ‘L’ with Andy all over again.
I stand and walk over to where I left my cowboy boots in the sand. I struggle into them and roll my jeans back down over their worn leather. I get back up, brush my ass free from sand, and head back to the door.
