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  But he refused to look.

  Maybe next time—if there is a next time—I can somehow make him see it’s okay that our gazes meet.

  Maybe we could even talk.

  CHAPTER 3: ANDY

  IT WASN’T until spring that I saw Carlos again. It was May, and my wedding was only a couple of months away. My family’s flights had been booked, flowers, catering, and band arranged, my tuxedo picked out and rented, and the excitement was beginning to build among family and friends.

  At the catalog house, we were busy preparing for the big Christmas book, which seemed weird, and I was thinking about the spread of Fisher-Price toys I would do and how I would direct the photographer to take one big shot that would splash across two pages with all the toys gathered under a Christmas tree. This was quite a step away from the usual individual blocks of copy and photographs we commonly did, and I was excited.

  Carlos was but a dim memory in my head that morning. I think, after that one time when he smiled (laughed?) at me, I’d had my eyes peeled for him for days, maybe weeks, dread and desire commingling. But when I hadn’t seen him in a couple of months, my breathing grew easier on the train, even though my heart felt a little darker.

  What I felt was like that strange creature I had seen in the movie Doctor Dolittle, the pushmi-pullyu. The animal was sort of a cross between a gazelle and a unicorn and had heads positioned on either end of its body, so they were constantly trying to go in opposite directions. Yeah, the pushmi-pullyu definitely summed up how I felt about seeing or not seeing Carlos. Part of me desperately wanted to, because to gaze on masculine beauty like that was, truly, rare and wondrous. And the other part was relieved, because if I didn’t see him, it didn’t stir up all sorts of feelings that disrupted my own personal world order.

  But even those emotions faded after a couple three months had passed of not seeing him. If I thought of him at all, it was to think that maybe his schedule had changed. Or that coincidence simply had not thrown us together again. Sure, he could have boarded the same train but was in another car. How many cars did an ‘L’ train have, anyway? Ten? A dozen? More at rush hour? When I thought of it that way, it was amazing that we happened to be across from each other even more than once.

  When I wasn’t reading or thinking about my workday or listening to Joan Jett, I would have to admit I liked to look around and study people. It was one of the things I did that reflected the real writer I longed to be someday. I hadn’t really ever dreamed of being an advertising copywriter, after all. But it paid the bills on my studio in Evanston better than a wannabe horror novelist.

  And that’s what I was doing that day when I spotted him again. This time he wasn’t leaning against the closed doors of the car. He was up ahead, crowded into the space where the conductor might have sat had this been the first car. It was one of those blessed crazy-warm first days of spring, and even my lightweight windbreaker felt too hot.

  The warmth and pulse of the day, the birds singing, all contributed to an electricity in the air that made the day feel special, especially after the brutal Chicago winter we had just survived.

  In memory, it was almost like he had an aura that made him stand out from other passengers in the crowded car. I guess I would assign it something warm, a soft buttery yellow.

  You know how you might read in poetry or hear in a song that someone took one’s breath away? The concept sounds silly, and we may accept it as metaphor. But the fact is, it’s real. When I saw him standing there, leaning over a woman in a bright red suit so he could surreptitiously read the magazine open on her lap, I caught my breath. I could hear the blood begin to thud, a dull roar, in my ears.

  And I had the old pushmi-pullyu reaction—the wanting to look away, the desire to eat him up with my eyes. He was looking no less hot this morning in a plaid shirt, open enough to reveal the silkiness of his smooth brown chest, perhaps just a little of the cleft between his pecs. He wore a faded denim jacket that made him seem a bit of the bad boy. Pressed khakis and loafers contradicted this impression.

  With my gaze still on him and probably communicating the million different thoughts racing through my head, he looked up.

  I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t look away. I told you about those eyes, how they were like magnets. They caught and held me, helpless. I wanted to turn my gaze toward the window or anywhere but at him, but he compelled me not to with those damn dark eyes, so probing—and yes, so sexy.

  He smiled, and this time I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his expression was not one of ridicule but one of recognition. It said “I’m happy to see you again.” My heart fluttered with relief, with a building current of desire. I hadn’t spoken even one word to him, but I felt like I had just reunited with a long-lost love.

  I smiled back.

  What am I doing? the reasonable, wannabe straight boy inside asked me. I’d fought so hard against my feelings, even feeling ashamed when I awakened one morning with the insides of my briefs damp from scattered images of hairy chests, erect cocks, come spurting, deep tongue kisses pressed against faces that felt, even in dream, like sandpaper.

  But I returned his grin, and our gazes held for a record amount of time. I heard, vaguely, the conductor announce the stop for Racine was coming up. Our gaze broke as Carlos sidled between two people and began moving toward the doors. Racine. That was his stop.

  What would I do? Would I sit and watch him vanish into the sunny day? Would I ride this same train again and again, perhaps never seeing him? Could I allow that to happen?

  Forces pulled at me. Sensible ones told me to stay put, to resume reading whatever book I had in my lap that day. Was it some potboiler horror novel that I’d favored back in the day? Dean Koontz, maybe? Other forces, though, drew me irresistibly toward the broad back and the high ass of Carlos as he prepared to exit the train.

  I got up, my heart pounding at what must have been three times its normal rate. I stood on shaky legs to take a few steps and stand behind him. I could see him turn his head slightly and regard me out of the corner of his eye.

  And God help me, I followed him off the train. The air outside was sweet, despite the exhaust from cars speeding by on the Eisenhower. He stopped. I stopped. We waited for the rush of passengers heading for the station’s exit to thin.

  And he smiled again, a big joyous grin that crinkled his eyes and lit up his face. I will never forget that expression.

  It was joy.

  And it was because of me.

  He spoke first. “I’ve been hoping this would happen.”

  Now, confronted with having to talk, I didn’t know what to say. Not only that, it was as though the power of speech had deserted me. I could only helplessly and, I was sure, stupidly grin at him.

  “I wanted to meet you so much,” Carlos said.

  His words were like a warm embrace. I wish I could recall what I finally said. But I can’t. I can only recall what my words led to—I invited him over that night. “Meet me at the South Boulevard ‘L’ stop in Evanston at seven,” I said and walked away before I could change my mind.

  WHEN I got to my little cubicle that I shared with Doreen, my cowriter, and my boss, Sheryl, I was shaking. Not just in the melodramatic sense of novels, but literally trembling.

  I sat down at my green Formica-topped desk and took in my surroundings as though seeing them for the first time. There was the H. R. Giger insectoid monster drawing I had cut from Fangoria magazine and pushpinned to my wall. There was my antique-even-for-the-80s manual typewriter, also a sick shade of industrial green. Here were the various schedules we needed to adhere to to get each catalog out on time.

  Fortunately I was the first one in that morning, and there was nobody, at least up close, to witness my tremors and my breathlessness. I remember actually letting out a burst of laughter, but there was no mirth in it, only a touch of hysteria.

  What had I done? Back then it wasn’t like I could text him and cancel or drop him an e-mail and say that the idea
of us getting together was not only ludicrous but also impossible. The image I had of myself, a young man poised on the brink of marriage to his college sweetheart, could not, would not, tolerate the idea of this gorgeous hunk being in my apartment that night. The two images collided with one another, battling righteously. The juxtaposition of the two made me squeamish, made me either want to tip over in my rolling office chair, laughing like a loon, or run to the bathroom and throw up the Froot Loops I had eaten for breakfast that morning.

  The phone rang and I gave out a gasp, startled. It rang again and I stared at the black instrument on my desk, as if I wasn’t sure what it expected of me.

  If there had been voice mail back then, I would have let that particular stroke of electronic genius handle the call for me. But in 1982 one picked up the phone when it rang.

  I silenced it in the middle of its third ring. “Andy Slater, Advertising.”

  “Where were you last night?” It was Alison. Her voice was like honey, sweet. It caused a burst of heat to ignite and to rise up to scald my cheeks. It was as though she knew what had just transpired, this pact I had made with a devil whose name I did not yet even know.

  Wait! You don’t know his name and you’re thinking of inviting him over? To your home? Are you nuts? My heart skipped a beat.

  “Honey? I asked you a question.” Even this early in the morning, Alison sounded a little peeved. “Where were you? I called and called. Mom and I were addressing invitations, and we needed some addresses for your side, but you never answered.”

  And a new guilt, along with a recent memory, rose up.

  I AM alone at a little bar on Granville Avenue called Embers. Scared out of my wits, I had paced for almost a half hour in front of the place before going in. I knew it was that forbidden fruit—a gay bar—from reading a carefully hidden copy of Gay Times, a local weekly.

  But I got up my courage and now sit, a stranger in a strange land, at the bar, a bottle of sweating Miller beer in front of me.

  I look around at the other patrons and am amazed none of them look in the least effeminate. One guy, with a handlebar moustache, tight Levi’s, faded flannel shirt, and work boots, looks, in all honesty, hypermasculine. He both scares and attracts me, one of my fantasies come to life. When he catches me sneaking a look at him, he smiles and tips his bottle of beer to me in a kind of salute.

  I look away.

  There are another couple of guys, about my own age, looking like they could have come from a meeting at the old fraternity house in their Izod polos and khakis, drinking martinis (I guess).

  The bartender, a spiky-haired blond wearing a T-shirt that has been shredded almost to a single thread to show off his muscles and tan, is all bluster as he washes glasses, wipes down the bar, and takes drink orders. He never stops moving.

  Does everyone know how out of place I feel being here?

  But I needed to see! I wanted to know what it was like. Did I fit in?

  Right now, the answer is no.

  Billy Joel’s “You May Be Right” is playing on the jukebox. It’s dark. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke that makes my eyes water.

  I want to leave, but somehow I stay rooted to my barstool for four hours, at last forcing myself to exit on unsteady legs and head for the ‘L’ station just west of the bar.

  I didn’t speak a word to anyone.

  “ANDY?” I was jolted out of my reverie by Alison’s voice and the shame that rose up to make me feel sick.

  “I-I-I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I was distracted by….” I searched desperately on my desk for an excuse, some reason for my silence as I took my little twisted trip down memory lane. There was a note from my boss, Sheryl, letting me know we would be looking at the film from our photography studio in the Loop at ten o’clock that morning. “By a note from Sheryl. She wants to meet with me.” I sighed. “I don’t know what it’s about.”

  “Is everything okay?” In Alison’s world everything revolved around terms like “socially acceptable,” “job security,” “home,” and “hearth.” She lived with her family in a big house on the affluent North Shore.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m sure it is.” I closed my eyes. I needed to get off the phone. I felt like my innards were having a race to see which would burst first, my heart or my stomach.

  “Are you gonna answer me?” Alison laughed.

  “About what?”

  I heard Alison blow out an exasperated breath. “About where you were last night. You didn’t tell me you had plans.”

  What could I say? And then the answer came to me. It could still be embarrassing, but I could admit I went to a bar. Alison wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t have to tell her it was a gay bar. “Don’t be mad.”

  “What?”

  “I went out for a walk last night and ended up on Howard Street.”

  “That neighborhood? Honey, it’s not safe. You could have been mugged.”

  “I know, I know. But I felt thirsty, like having a beer, and I passed this little Irish place called Mulligan’s and thought I’d stop in and have a cold one.”

  A frosty silence met my admission. But I was relieved because it sounded believable, even though I knew my fiancée would not approve. “You were drinking alone?”

  “Yeah. I know. It was stupid.”

  I don’t remember what else we talked about. The fact that I was out in a bar by myself did not make Alison happy, but I also knew if she knew the real truth, she would have been far less happy.

  After our conversation, during which Sheryl and Doreen had come in, hanging up jackets and tucking purses under desks, I knew there was no way I could meet Carlos that night.

  The guilt I would feel would kill me.

  But I was too decent a guy to just stand him up. Oh, who was I trying to kid? It wasn’t anything to do with decency. I knew once he faced me at the ‘L’ stop, there would be no turning back. I’d bring him home.

  And then what would I do?

  My mind conjured up a pornographic montage of fantasy images to answer that question.

  I formulated a plan. I would walk up South Boulevard to where it intersected with Chicago Avenue. Across the street would be the Evanston South Boulevard ‘L’ stop. I was pretty sure Carlos would be traveling by ‘L.’ And he would be certain to pass right by me if I stood on that particular corner.

  I would write him a letter, because I knew I would be unable to coherently put into words what I was feeling. I would press it on him and say I was sorry.

  So that Sheryl would think I was working, I rolled a piece of the green paper we used for copy into my manual and began typing. Since I had yet to learn his name, the letter would have to just begin, without a salutation.

  I’m sorry.

  Sorry for so many things. Sorry I flirted with you on the ‘L’ train, sorry I invited you over, sorry I caught you up in the mess of my life. It takes a lot for me to admit these things, and I am embarrassed even as I write them.

  See, I’m not who—or what—you think. I have a whole life ahead of me that does not include getting together with men in my apartment. I’m engaged to the sweetest, most wonderful girl in the world. And we’re having a big church wedding in July. My girlfriend makes me happy; she really does, in every way. I want to have a future with her, kids, a dog, white picket fence, the whole bit. Everyone else has it; why can’t I?

  Seeing you, bringing you home, would not help me realize that dream. Because this is the last time we’ll ever meet, I can be honest. I think you’re really handsome. In spite of what’s happening in July, a part of me really wants to be with you, to touch you, to kiss you. More.

  But I can’t. I just can’t. It’s not who I am. I know that when I stand up in front of that priest this summer, I have to be able to say my vows with a clean heart. Those will be promises I will not take lightly. And I will stick to them.

  See, I believe that, in spite of the attraction I feel for you, once my girl and I are married, I’ll be okay. We’ll have regular
sex, and then when the kids and all the other stuff that goes with married life come along, I’ll be able to change.

  These feelings I have will go away. I believe that. I have to.

  I hope you understand and won’t hold it against me. I’m sorry you had to come from wherever it is you live to make this meeting we set up, but I hope you can see how damaging it would be to me to go through with it.

  And I hope too that if you see me again on the train, you’ll discreetly move to another car next chance you get. You tempt me. Oh, how you tempt me.

  I grew up Catholic and learned something as a little boy in catechism—avoid the occasion of sin. Seeing you is an occasion of sin.

  I apologize if you’re disappointed. I understand if you think I’m a nutcase. Maybe I am!

  And I wish only good things for you.

  I wondered how I should sign the note. Best regards? Sincerely? Those seemed too formal. Love? Too romantic. Your friend? Too cold.

  So I just ended it as I began it, without the usual formalities. I pulled the sheet of paper from my typewriter, read it over, folded it into quarters, and tucked it into my jacket pocket.

  I felt a paradoxical mixture of relief and sadness. My head told me I was doing the right thing. All I needed to validate that was to picture Alison in my head. She was a wonderful young woman, and I would protect her from the wounds she had grown up with in a family that appeared to be the American dream but was anything but.

  But my heart cried out, telling me I was making a mistake. This guy from the train wasn’t just an attraction, wasn’t just lust. Even though we had spoken barely more than a dozen words, I’d seen something in him, a certain sympathy, a gleam of kindness in his eyes that touched my heart, that made me wonder, before I quickly crushed it, if something just as beautiful as what I thought I had with Alison could bloom between us.

  And my libido complained too, trying to convince me to throw away the letter and go through with tonight’s assignation. That sneaky devil on my shoulder told me to just go ahead and allow myself tonight, enjoy it as a way of saying good-bye to my feelings for my own sex. Very reasonably, it encouraged me to let myself have this last hurrah. It was only fair.