Blink

by Rick R. Reed

  I’ve made a decision.

  Of course the door to the beach has locked behind me. I chuckle and shake my head. I walk to the side of the building, which will put me in the courtyard once more, where hopefully I can grab hold of the door as one or more of the partygoers make their way out. Otherwise I will have to go back out the gate and use the intercom to regain entry.

  I realize that if it weren’t for wanting to talk to Andy’s son, I would probably just head west, to the ‘L’ stop, and go home.

  But there have been too many missed connections. That’s something this night has reminded me.

  I eventually have to do the whole go-outside-and-get-buzzed-in-again routine, but I hope it’ll be worth it.

  I find Andy’s son inside, on a couch. I have to smile as I observe him. He’s very much in the first throes of love or lust. He and a guy with red hair and a beard are practically on each other’s laps. Big Red has his arm around Andy’s son—I wish I could remember his name, but I can’t—and they’re also holding hands. They gaze into one another’s eyes, grinning like idiots. I have to wonder why they’re even still here.

  I almost hate to approach. They’ve practically sealed out the party in their bubble of infatuation.

  It’s sweet and harkens back to a time of life when I had such feelings myself.

  It’s a big circle, isn’t it?

  I stand near them, quietly at first. It’s not as easy as you might think to make eye contact. Finally, Big Red notices me standing there, like the wallflower I am.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Andy’s son turns to look up at me. “Oh, hi! You’re my dad’s friend. Carlos, right?”

  I nod. “And, um, remind me of your name.”

  “Tate.” He disengages himself a bit from the redhead. “This is Kelly.”

  We stare at each other for a moment. I break the silence. “Tate, your dad kind of left suddenly—”

  Tate snorts. “Tell me about it!”

  “And I didn’t get a chance to get his number.”

  Tate nods, and I can see a little suspicion creep into his face.

  “I was wondering if you’d be willing to give it to me. I want to talk to him some more. We’re old friends. It would be nice to catch up.”

  Tate gives me an awkward smile. “I hope you understand, but I don’t really know you, and I don’t know if my dad would appreciate me giving out his number. I hope that’s okay.”

  I don’t want to argue with him or plead. And he has a point. But I’m sure the disappointment shows on my face.

  “Hey, how about this?” Tate offers. “I’ll send him a text and ask him if it’s okay.”

  I visualize waiting around here all night for a text or call that might never come. Andy could already be home and in bed by now. “Could you give him my number too? That way if you don’t hear back right away, he can at least call me.”

  “Good idea.” Tate pulls his iPhone out of his pocket, and his fingers get busy flying over the tiny screen. Like so many of his peers, he’s adept at texting, the motions coming to him as naturally as speech.

  I cannot say the same.

  “What’s your number?”

  I tell him. Tate finishes up with his text and, I presume, hits Send.

  I stand awkwardly for a few moments and try to make a little conversation. Are they enjoying the party? Did they arrive together? Fortunately, Tate’s phone gives a little chime. He still holds it and looks down at the screen. “It’s my dad.” He looks up at me. “He sent his number.” He smiles, and I do too—like a teenager whose most-hoped-for date to the prom just accepted.

  I turn. “Let me go see if I can find a pen and something to write on.”

  “Don’t you have a smart phone?” Tate asks.

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I can just send you his number. That way it’ll be in your phone.”

  Why didn’t I think of that? Because you’re beyond these technologies. They’re not second nature to you as they are to Tate. “Of course,” I say.

  He sends the number, and I get the confirmation of his text almost immediately as a vibration in my pocket. I thank him and let him get back to Big Red.

  Now I need only say my good-byes and head outside. Should I call Andy tonight or be more reasonable and wait?

  What do you think?

  CHAPTER 20: ANDY

  “EZRA, SHALL we retire to the bedroom?”

  The green-eyed cat looks up at me with what I perceive as understanding, even though logic tells me I’m probably speaking gibberish to his feline ears. Nonetheless he gets up from his place on the back of the couch, hops down, does an elaborate stretch, and follows me into the bedroom. I pull back the duvet and watch as Ezra jumps up on the bed. He settles into his favorite spot—the left corner at the foot.

  I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror and wonder what Carlos saw when he got a glimpse of the face staring back at me right now. Did he see the lines around my eyes, the subtle sagging of the skin, the silver at my temples? Or did he see the younger me, with a full head of hair, bright unlined eyes, and a shy smile? Is it possible he saw both, sort of morphed through the magic of imagination? A time-lapse double exposure?

  I shrug and rinse off my toothbrush. Does it really matter? I realize now I blew my chance. I made a fool of myself with him. One thing about me—my heart is worn fully on my sleeve. For better or worse, my emotions are on display. My little jealous snit, I think with embarrassment, was childish. I should have stayed at the party. Maybe if I had, another opportunity would have presented itself to talk to Carlos. Perhaps we could have found a quiet corner—good luck with that!—or even stepped out onto the beach I’m sure was just behind the building.

  But I closed those doors and probably made a very bad, if not crazy, impression on the guy. I wonder if I would ever have the nerve to see if Tate could get some contact information for Carlos, or if I might get in touch with him through his workplace, since I now know at least that much about him.

  I go back into the bedroom and settle under the sheets in my boxers. My Kindle is on the nightstand, and I pick it up and start reading Mr. Mercedes by Stephen King. Old habits die hard! It isn’t long before I’m immersed in King’s world, populated by a desperate retired cop and an insane mass murderer. For some, Calgon takes them away. For me, it’s Stephen King.

  My phone, also on the nightstand, gives a little chirp that I recognize as an incoming text message. I figure it’s Tate. I pick up the phone, surmising that he’s probably calling to tell me he won’t be staying over and that he’ll see me in the morning. My little boy is all grown up.

  I’m right. It’s Tate. But his short text shocks me.

  Dad. Here with Carlos. He wants your number. Okay if I give it to him?

  I look around my bedroom, making sure I’m not dreaming. I quickly text my number back and hit Send.

  Well, excuse me, Mr. King, if I can’t return to your suspense-ridden world. I have better things to think about, such as will he ever call? When? What made him ask for my number when he was obviously there with Fremont St. James? Did he remember more about us?

  I settle back on the pillow, feeling restless, staring at the ceiling, looking out the window. A car rumbles by, its transmission grumbling. A gaggle of what I suspect are teenage girls walk by on the sidewalk below, their high-pitched laughter and excited voices filtering up to me on the spring air.

  After lying in bed, tossing and turning for what seems like hours but is, in reality, only ten minutes or so, I decide that trying to sleep is pointless. I get up and throw on a T-shirt to ward off the night chill. In the kitchen I root around in my refrigerator and grab myself a bottle of beer. It’s Stella Artois, and I shudder to think I have the same taste in beer as Fremont St. James. I open the bottle and take it out the back door to sit on the landing of the back stairs.

  I’m glad none of the neighbors are out. I want to just sit and r
evel in what I will allow myself to think of as a victory. I couldn’t have made such an off-putting impression on Carlos if he asked Tate for my number. Which reminds me, just in case, I should have my phone out here with me.

  I realize it’s too late for him to call tonight, but you never know. I set the beer down and go back inside.

  The phone is ringing. Don’t get all excited, I tell myself. It’s probably a wrong number. I glance up at the clock on the microwave above the range and see that it’s a little after eleven. I’m reminded, momentarily, of late-night booty calls that once upon a time wouldn’t have been so unusual, especially on a Saturday night, but those days are long gone.

  I hurry into the bedroom, praying my smartphone won’t be dumb enough to go to voice mail before I can reach it.

  I snatch the phone up from the nightstand, drop it once, stoop to retrieve it, and finally push the Connect icon on its screen. I don’t recognize the number, and the pessimist in me believes that’s verification this is a wrong number.

  “Hello?”

  “Andy? Hey, it’s Carlos.”

  I swear my heart skips a beat. I feel I’m suddenly time traveling, and I’m a fourteen-year-old boy back in my boyhood home in Ohio, and the popular Ralph Cooke has just called to see if he could copy my algebra homework.

  “How nice of you to call,” I say into the phone and then mentally kick myself. Smooth. Real smooth.

  “I hope I’m not calling too late?”

  I’ve never been able to admit I’m in bed when someone calls either early in the morning or late at night. I don’t know why. But in this case, I don’t want Carlos to think he’s done anything wrong, even though calling at after 11:00 p.m. is a bit, well, rude. But I couldn’t be more delighted. Besides, I’m not in bed, technically speaking.

  I get myself under some measure of control. “Ah, no. I was just out on my back porch, having a beer. I’ll probably turn in soon.” Yeah, right. You’d be fast asleep with your Kindle on your chest and Ezra curled up between your legs if it weren’t for Tate’s text.

  “Good, good. I’m glad you’re still up.”

  We fall to seconds-long silence. I get the feeling Carlos doesn’t quite know what to say.

  Neither do I.

  At last Carlos says, “I got tired of the party.”

  “I did too.”

  “I noticed.”

  “I hope Fremont didn’t think I was too rude for just slipping out.”

  Carlos laughs. “No offense, but I honestly doubt he even noticed.”

  The seconds evaporate into silence. I walk to my bedroom window and look out at the night. Up and down my street, I can see many lights on in the apartment buildings lining Lunt Avenue, the flickering of television screens, a woman pacing in front of a window with a baby on her shoulder.

  Lots of people are still up. It’s Saturday night. Would it be so terrible to ask him if he wanted to meet up? “So you left the party?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I used to like a good party a lot more. As I’ve gotten older, though, I find that I prefer smaller gatherings—a dinner party with four or six people—as opposed to a big bash. It’s funny. I feel more alone at one of those big gatherings than I do just being by myself. And if I’m being honest, I actually like my own company too, especially as time goes by.”

  I want to tell Carlos I love him, not in a literal sense, but he’s just spoken my point of view so eloquently that I can’t help but think we’d be a match.

  “So,” I wonder, tentative, “are you home yet?”

  “Nah. I’m just wandering around the streets of Rogers Park, hoping to get lucky.”

  “You dog!”

  Once more silence, like a persistent pest, creeps into our conversation, or lack thereof. I get the sense Carlos is as nervous as I am. I wonder how serious he was about getting lucky. I don’t know if I’m up for full-on luck tonight, but I would really love to see him. Any exhaustion I might have felt earlier evaporated with the sound of his voice.

  “Do you remember when I invited you over to my place, back in 1982?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you really? Do you remember everything that happened that night?”

  “Would it surprise you if I said I do?”

  “Well, a little, since you didn’t recognize me at first,” I say.

  “C’mon! Give a guy a break. It’s been more than thirty years.”

  Begrudgingly I admit to myself that he has a point. The changes those years have brought aren’t too noticeable to me, because I look in a mirror at least once or twice a day, but to him, they must be drastic. “So you remember how sweet it was?”

  “Until you got that phone call,” Carlos says.

  I close my eyes and lift the phone to my forehead for a moment. He does remember. I bring the phone back to my ear. “Do you play golf?”

  Carlos laughs. “Where did that come from? Talk about a non sequitur!”

  “Bear with me,” I assure him. “I don’t play golf either. I can’t imagine a more boring pastime. But there’s a term golfers use called a mulligan.”

  “A mulligan?” Carlos says. “That’s a new one to me.”

  “Well, it’s basically a do-over. It’s a second chance.” I gnaw a bit at my lower lip. I know where I’m going with this, but I question if Carlos does. And I wonder if this direction is the right one. It’s late, and maybe I’m past the age where I should be inviting men over.

  What are you? Eighty? I kick myself mentally. I may have passed fifty, but I’m not that old.

  “A second chance,” Carlos says. “Do we ever really get them?”

  “Would you like to try and find out?”

  Carlos doesn’t say anything for a while, and I worry that I’ve put him off. That maybe now he’ll perceive me, like my horny last date, Chet, as just another gay dude on the make.

  “I’d love to find out if there’s such a thing as a second chance.” Carlos’s simple declaration inspires in me a feeling I don’t think I’ve had in many moons. I might even call it joy.

  I swallow and say, “Would you like to come over? I’m in Rogers Park, so you could probably walk.”

  “Tell me where I’m going.”

  I give him the address, and we hang up with mutual “See you soons.”

  This time, I think, I’ll turn off my phone when he gets here.

  I give the condo a quick once-over. The advantage of being an obsessively neat gay man of a certain age is that one is always ready for unexpected company. The place looks acceptable, I think as I straighten the stack of magazines on the coffee table and put the coffee mug from this morning in the dishwasher. I hurry into the bedroom, shoo Ezra from the bed, and pull the sheets and comforter up. I smooth everything out with my hand and then throw the extra pillows in their shams on top. I look down at the bed and wonder if things will go on there tonight. After all, this is a second chance, right?

  But a lot of water has rushed under the bridge since Carlos and I were horny twentysomethings, I caution myself. Maybe I should just consider what we’ll talk about.

  Yeah, right. I’m still a gay man. And he’s still a very hot gay man.

  I wonder if I’ll have time for a quick shower and decide I won’t. It would be just my luck to be under the spray when he arrives. He’s in the neighborhood. He could be here in as little as five minutes.

  Well, you could at least put on something a little less obvious than boxer shorts. Or do you want him to see you as the craven slut you once were? Memories rush back of younger days when I was desperate enough and bold enough to hook up via a phone sex line and later the Internet, and to greet my prospective suitor at the door in nothing but a pair of black briefs or a jock strap.

  I don’t even know where my jock strap is, I think and bark out a nervous laugh. I’m sure I have one around here somewhere. What would Carlos do if I answered the door wearing it? I can just picture myself, leaning against the doorframe with a come-hither look in my eyes and saying, “Hey, sailor�
��.”

  I shake my head. The confidence and nerve, not to mention the body, I had to pull off such a move have gone the way of the Sony Walkman. I pull open my dresser drawers and closet and in a few minutes am more tamely attired in a pair of faded Levi’s and a Chicago Cubs T-shirt. Hey, I can at least try to pass for butch.

  Too soon and not soon enough, my phone rings, and I know it’s Carlos at my front gate.

  What if it’s not? A sudden thought occurs to me. What if it’s Tate, calling to say he’s on his way home? Oh, wouldn’t that just be too perfect? I love my boy and want to be with him as much as possible, just not right now.

  Fortunately the number on the screen is not Tate’s. Tate’s name, not his number, would come up anyway, along with a picture of him I took last summer at a street fair in Evanston.

  I walk over to the window with the phone in my hand, to where I can see the front gate. It’s him. It’s Carlos.

  I don’t say anything. I simply hit the number on the screen that will unlatch the gate. I go to wait by the door for the sound of his footfalls on the staircase.

  Is this really happening?

  I close my eyes as I hear the tread of his footsteps ascending, then getting closer as he approaches my front door. My heart beats a little faster. A line of sweat trickles down my back. I’m in my twenties again.

  I open the door, and he’s there. Just for a moment, I flash back to a drizzly night in Evanston, standing across the street from the South Boulevard ‘L’ Station and seeing him emerge. Back then, my stomach gave a little lurch, and my head filled with a potent cocktail of joy and desire.

  The feeling tonight, some thirty-odd years later, is not much different.

  But decorum prevails. My head tells me I don’t really know this man, and my heart says I do, in all the right ways. The ways that count.

  I open the door wider and try to quell the slight shaking I feel in my hands. This moment has an element of the surreal to it. “Hey there. You want to come in?”

  “No. I just wanted a glimpse of you. A glimpse is enough.” And he turns to head back down the stairs.

  Just as quickly, he turns around again and grins. “Silly. Of course I want to come in.”