by Rick R. Reed
No, I still looked at you through a rosy haze of lust and limerence, what a fool might call “love.”
And that love led me to a very logical plan. I would come down to Belltown on Saturday night, watch you perform, and the whole time, I would imagine your delight when I came backstage after the show. I would imagine the secret connection our eyes would make, knowing the most romantic of your songs was directed at me. That would surely be the ultimate delight.
I guess delight wasn’t quite the right word.
Expecting a repeat of the night we had met, I once again dressed carefully for the evening, in skinny black jeans, combat boots, and a form-fitting black T-shirt with a bright pink skull emblazoned on the back. I looked hot. I considered calling a friend or two, but the optimistic (or should I say the delusional?) side of me knew how the evening would end and I should keep myself unencumbered.
Here’s how stupid I was: before leaving my apartment, I put fresh sheets on the bed, tidied up, made sure there were clean towels and a new bar of soap in the bathroom. I checked to make sure the nightstand drawer was stocked with condoms and lube. We hadn’t made it to the bed our first time, but tonight I wanted that to happen. I wanted to wake up next to you. I had even made a quick trip of the Safeway so there would be stuff like eggs and bread in the kitchen for breakfast.
What a dreamer!
Fortunately, I got one of the last remaining tickets for your show when I arrived about a half hour before curtain. Word must have already been spreading because tonight’s crowd seemed bigger and more enthusiastic than just two weeks ago.
I pushed into the crowd inside the small club. There were no reserved seats and I wanted to find a place near the front where I could at least stand, so you could see me. Finding a seat was pretty much out of the question, but I was lucky enough to grab some space near a post at the far left of the stage. I thought I would look provocative and fetching leaning against that post, one knee up, and a beer in my hand.
And perhaps I did look appealing…but not to you.
I tried all night to make eye contact, to catch even the smallest look from you, but you never looked my way.
I take that back. If I were to be brutally honest with myself, I would have to admit that there was a split second when you glanced over at me and our eyes met. You looked away so fast I couldn’t be positive you had seen me. In my most delusional hours, I was sure you had not. In my most realistic hours, I knew in my heart you had and you looked away so quickly because you were embarrassed.
You should have been.
Should I go on to tell of my humiliation after the show when I tried to go backstage?
Oh, I’d rather not. But memory refuses to produce a different outcome from the truth. I mistakenly thought I could just stroll backstage after your show—a show that earned you a standing ovation and three encores—and talk to you. You would be sheepish, saying you lost my number and I would magnanimously forgive you. We would go off into the night together, perhaps stopping to grab a bottle of wine before heading back to Ballard and my place.
I have always loved fairy tales!
A security guard stopped me as I attempted to breach the corridor leading back stage.
“And where do you think you’re going?”
I smiled at the man, a stocky African-American with biceps that looked like chocolate hams. I don’t know why my face felt flushed and warm, as if I had been caught doing something I shouldn’t have been. There were no signs prohibiting entrance to the backstage area. Still, maybe I should have known.
“I’m a friend of the lead singer in the band.”
“Uh-huh. You want to tell me your name? I can call back there.” He pulled a walkie-talkie from a clasp on his belt and held it up for me to see.
For a moment, I considered just hanging my head low and slinking away. I still think a realist part of me knew what would happen. But I envisioned you earlier in the evening, your hair falling down over one eye, lost in a song, the rasp and heat of your voice and I told the security guard, “Just tell him Leon’s out here.”
I don’t think we’d ever exchanged last names, but my first name was unusual enough I knew he’d remember and not confuse me with anyone else.
The security guard turned away and talked softly into the walkie-talkie. I could hear it squawk, but could make out none of the words.
He turned back to me and I felt my face and ears burning again. The guard was grinning and somehow I knew it was not good news. His expression was more mean than mirthful.
“Leon?”
“Right.”
“From where?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You here to interview him or what? You press?”
I shook my head. “No. I told you, I’m a friend.”
The security guard nodded. In spite of the nod, his expression was nothing if not skeptical. “He said to ask where you from.”
I didn’t know what this even meant. Where I’m from? Would it help to say I grew up in Alpharetta, Georgia? A light flickered above my head, dimly, for an instant. “Oh. Tell him we met at Olive’s a couple weeks ago.” No way was I supplying more details to this guard, who already seemed way too amused with me.
The guard repeated the actions of turning away and consulting into his walkie-talkie once more. He seemed put out by the effort, but I didn’t care. Surely, the mention of the Ballard club where we had met would ring a bell. Hell, I didn’t even know if I had told him my name that night we spent together.
When the guard turned back to me, he wore a much more sympathetic expression than he had before. I think I preferred the amusement. I hated him for the sorrowful look in those brown eyes. “Sorry, man, he says he doesn’t know a Leon from Olive’s.”
I sucked in some air, feeling as though I had been punched in the stomach. I nodded at guard, in effect dismissing him and turned to head toward the exit, walking faster and faster as I approached.
I told myself this had to be a mix up. I told myself I would not cry. I tried to make myself believe it.
Outside, the night was alive with traffic, blaring horns, laughter, and conversation as Saturday night revelers made their way from one bar or club to the next.
I had never felt more excluded.
I had never felt number.
I looked up and saw your smoldering gaze looking down at me: the poster for your band and that night’s performance. I glanced around quickly, making sure I wasn’t observed, and ripped it from the wall.
I headed home to Ballard, hailing a cab and damning the cost. I deserved it.
* * * *
I wish I could say that was the end of our story. I now know that, for you, our story ended the night it began: more of a haiku than an epic. But for me, our story ends here, with my taking a not-so-graceful plunge from a bridge to splatter on the concrete below.
Russell waits behind me. I’m not sure, but I think his breathing is probably a bit quicker than usual; he’s most likely tense, maybe wishing he had just pedaled on instead of stopping to see if he could help.
His voice startles me. “You know, if you’re thinking of, oh, doing something that other people might find stupid or selfish, maybe you should consider this: do what you want, but do me a favor. Let me know I did all I could to prevent it. Just take a walk with me, off the bridge. We’ll sit down. We can talk about what brought you here. If, after that, you still feel like doing what I think you’re planning on doing, well then, at least I tried. Can you do that for me?”
I turn to regard him. He’s a handsome guy, in a grizzled sort of way. Aside from the dark hair and eyes and the scruffy beard, I notice he has these full bee-stung lips. I like his gaze; it’s straightforward, which says a lot about his confidence. And besides what he’s doing right now, there is something about him that exudes caring and compassion.
I don’t need that now. I don’t need someone fucking up everything. I thought for so long and so hard about this decision. I can’t have him—
sweet and cute as he is—make me waver.
Just to get him away from me, because his stare is making me wonder, if only ever so slightly, if I truly am doing the right thing, I offer him what I hope he will see as a compromise. And it will get him away from me should he try to pull me back when I am ready to take my dive.
“You’re really kind. I appreciate that. Can you give me just a few more minutes alone with my thoughts? And then we can talk. You just need to go back to where you left your bike.” I nod in the general direction of his bicycle, which lies on its side near the end of the bridge. “If you just wait over there for a few minutes, I’ll come and talk to you.”
He eyes me, skepticism creeping into his features. I can see he’s not stupid; he doesn’t want to follow this plan. It’s too risky.
“Look, if you don’t do this, I swear to God I’ll jump, before you even have a chance to raise your voice or your hands to stop me.” I take a step near the bridge’s edge and grab hold of the waist-high railing to prove my point.
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
I lean forward into the abyss. All I would have to do is kick my legs up and it would be over. “I mean it, man.”
He looks alarmed. “Please don’t do this,” he says breathlessly. “I couldn’t take it. I’ve had a lot of crap going on in my own life lately and if I see you do something like this, I don’t know what I’ll do.” He pauses to think for a minute. “Maybe join you.” He laughs. “No. I wouldn’t do that. But listen, I have been dealing with my own personal share of shit lately. I lost my job just at the time my landlord decided to raise my rent. My mom just found out she has cancer.” He regards me with those dark chocolate eyes; I feel I could fall into them. “And my boyfriend fucked around behind my back and then decided to dump me. So if you think you’ve got it bad, you probably do, but most likely you’re no worse off than the rest of us.”
I scratch my head, give him a reluctant grin. So he’s a homo, too? And had love troubles…
Wow! We have so much in common! I roll my eyes.
“C’mon, man. Misery loves company. Just come off of here and tell me what brought you to this point. I really wanna know. And I’ll share my own tale of woe. We can compare notes. Saddest story wins.” He smiles. “And if it’s a tie, I’ll race you to the edge.”
And he has a sense of humor!
I close my eyes, briefly considering giving him what he’s asking for. But I know that his offer to let me go after I talk to him won’t happen. He’s too kind, too decent, to just throw up his hands and say, “Well I tried,” and then just let me go jump off a bridge.
“Just two steps,” I whisper. “Please.”
“What?”
“Just back off a couple of steps, then. Give me that.”
He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “One…two.” He says, taking exactly two steps back.
I consider just a quick leap and this will all end. But how can I do that to this guy? Can you imagine his nightmares?
But I have to wallow…just a little bit more.
“Now just stay there,” I say and begin to recall, with shame, embarrassment, and despair, what brought me to this point.
* * * *
In the music world, one hit single can take you from relative unknown, playing for peanuts in dive bars, to superstar overnight. You’ve seen it happen. Some of these folks become one-hit wonders. Others go on to have legs, people like The Rolling Stones, Madonna, Michael Jackson, Tina Turner.
Your band had that one hit and that one hit led to an album. No longer was it only me who tracked your progress, but magazines like Entertainment Weekly and Rolling Stone, media outlets like MTV; you even had a guest gig on American Idol.
Part of me gave up in a way. The intervening years between our night together and your rise to fame became a kind of surreal experience for me. I started seeing your face everywhere: magazine covers, billboards, TV ads, and hearing your sultry, smoky voice from my radio when I least expected it.
Our night together became like a dream, unreal, as if it had never happened. Sometimes I’d wonder if it did. I would ask myself if I didn’t actually walk home alone that night in Ballard and fall into bed, a little drunk, and just dreamed of you making love to me on the couch. Even my friends, now that you were famous, were certain I was making up our encounter.
But I always knew the answer: yes, it really happened. And you were really here. And you were really inside me. And you promised to come back.
What truly didn’t seem real were all the signs of your celebrity that I could not seem to escape and my image of you from that night—that shy, funny boy with the eyes and the smart mouth. The two just didn’t mesh.
I tried to move on. I really did. I even dated other guys. I got a second cat to keep Hubert, my Siamese, company. And maybe I could have gotten over you if reminders didn’t surround me. Maybe I could have loved Chris from Everett or Peter from Wallingford if I didn’t hear or see you every time I turned around.
But, like that Willie Nelson song, you were always on my mind.
And then, one day, I heard you were coming back to Seattle. The triumphant native son would return home, playing for one night only at the Paramount Theater downtown.
Tickets were scarce and that didn’t really matter because I was not going. Like a good little addict and relapsed Catholic, I told myself the best course of action was to stay as far away as possible from an occasion of sin. I would not go. I would not subject myself to the kind of humiliation I had suffered the last time you were in town. This time could only be worse. I would have lots more competition trying to get to you.
So, no, I would do the sensible thing: stay home that night, rent a good movie, order in Chinese from Snappy Dragon and have a Little Britain marathon on the DVD player. Not only would I not shed a tear over your pitiful, yet undeniably sexy, carcass, I would laugh the night away, buoyed up by MSG, handmade chow mein noodles, and Tsingtao beer.
I ordered a ticket online within the first fifteen minutes they became available.
After I had logged off the Ticketmaster site, I told myself that just because I had purchased a ticket (and since when were you worth $150?) did not mean I had to attend the show. I could still proceed with the comfy evening at home with which I had attempted to lure myself away from you.
Even I knew I would go.
* * * *
I turn to look at Russell, who still stands just two steps behind me on the “suicide bridge.” He’s biting his nails and eyeing me as if I could do him harm.
“Look, I’m not going to do anything stupid. Why don’t you just run along? Leave your bike back there long enough and I guarantee someone will steal it.”
Russell just smiles.
“Really. There’s lots to do besides hang out here with the likes of me. Have you seen the Fremont Troll? Just walk your bike under the pedestrian underpass and the troll is down there…it’s impressive.”
Sweet Jesus, I’m babbling. But I desperately need to be alone. “Fine.” I turn away from Russell to regard the snow-capped Olympic Mountains in the distance. More and more boats are making their way from the shipping canal into Lake Union. A bright sunny day for the rest of the world; infinite possibilities sparkle upon the blue waters.
I try to pretend Russell is not behind me. I try to imagine another human being is not so close by, sharing my intimate shame with me. Even though I am certain Russell cannot read my mind, I am convinced he can sense my regret and despair; it must roll off of me like an odor.
His unrelenting gaze makes the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. For a moment, I try to will him away.
Knowing that won’t work, I concentrate on that final time I saw you, just a week ago, at the Paramount Theater.
* * * *
This time was different. I didn’t give a damn about how I looked. I hadn’t shaved in three days, my jeans were ripped and stained, and the T-shirt I wore was faded and thin from too many wa
shings. My hair needed a cut and stuck up in all directions.
So what if I looked like I could be the lead singer’s brother? So what if my careless, even reckless, attire actually had the opposite effect, making me look desirable in a Seattle grunge sort of way?
Tonight was not about paying heed to common sense; tonight was about just not caring. Or so I tried to tell myself…
I had an orchestra seat, but I was far back from the stage. Even in my own overactive imagination, I knew we would not lock gazes tonight. I was surrounded by hundreds of others, of both genders, who wanted, like me, to be the object of your affection…or even lust. I could see it in their rampant fan stares. I could hear it, quite plainly, in the suggestive come-ons they cried out as you walked onto the stage.
You were huge.
What was I doing here?
I sat through your set, even though I couldn’t see you or your band most of the time because the adoring crowd seldom took their seats. They swayed, they sang along, they screamed, they applauded wildly at the end of each set, so much that sometimes you had to beg them to calm down.
I was unmoved. I wanted us to be back in Ballard a few years ago, in that little dive, where you looked at me as you sang. I felt jealous…of an entire audience. Can you imagine the amplitude of that jealousy?
I knew that tonight, I would either let go of you or leap completely off the deep end and become a stalker, not satisfied until you were dead. If I couldn’t have you, no one else would. Thoughts like these scared me and made me want to run from the theater in alarm.
I was not the kind of person who let such fancies cross his mind, even in the most playful way.
I sat through the encores (four), the lighters held aloft, the chanting of your name. I wondered what the people around me would think if they knew I had slept with you, kissed your balls, felt you bucking and surging inside me?
Loony tunes. Star fucker. Delusional.
I stayed until the audience began to filter out. I remained until they began cleaning up…staring at the stage, its emptiness made all the more of a vacuum by your absence.
