Unraveling Page 3

  Despite my assurances that I have been faithful, Violet insists that I get tested for HIV and other infections. I tell her there’s no way I have anything she could catch. She tells me back, “I believe you. But every lover and spouse who believed in their mate and ended up infected felt the same, I’m sure. Don’t take it personally. It’s just a precaution for my peace of mind.”

  I think of AIDS and I shudder. The stories I’ve read in the newspapers and magazines. It’s another reason to fear “potential suitors.”

  Now that I know I want to live, I have to stay alive for Henry. I don’t want him to visit his dad in some godforsaken AIDS ward, covered in Kaposi’s Sarcoma lesions.

  Rule number three is that she actually thinks I need to meet other gay people. “I’ll leave it up to you how, where, and when.”

  She looks away when she offers this, and it makes my best friends, guilt and shame, rise up once more. I want to assure her I have no such needs, not now anyway.

  But the one thing I can’t bring myself to admit is that I’m hungry. Hungry to meet someone like me, not necessarily for romance or sex, but just to know there are others out there like me, maybe even other married men, so I won’t feel so alone. I imagine briefly a man out there who will understand me, who will be a balm on the pain I’ve lived with.

  I don’t dare hope for someone who will make me love myself. That’s going to take time, and I believe it’s part of Violet’s reasoning for having me make a plan to get out of my closet and meet other people.

  The last thing she asks is that we never, no matter what happens, fight over Henry.

  “I will never poison his mind against you. I will never try to take him away from his father. I know how much you love him.”

  Those words linger, and they ended our talk for this night.

  Now, we watch the night morph into day.

  It’s a new beginning.

  Almost as one, we get up from the couch and head toward our bedroom.

  At the door, Vi turns to me and gives me a sad smile. She puts a hand on my chest.

  “What?” I ask, already instinctively knowing, but needing confirmation.

  She glances down at the floor and then back up at me, her gray eyes shining once again with tears. I wouldn’t think she’d have any left. “I think I need to sleep alone. Okay?”

  It breaks my heart. But I get it. I do. I’m no longer the same man she woke up next to yesterday morning—which now seems like eons ago rather than twenty-four hours.

  She turns away from me and heads over to the walk-in closet. She hands me a quilt, sheet, and pillow, stacked up. “I don’t know how I feel about this.”

  “You do.” I let out a shuddering breath. “And it’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.”

  I turn and head back to the couch in the living room. I plop down with the bedding in my lap. Okay? I wonder if anything will ever be okay again.

  Chapter Five

  JOHN

  Vince picks me up at nine o’clock. He calls through the intercom, “Just come on down. I’m double-parked out here, man.”

  The street I’m on in my neighborhood of Ravenswood, Lincoln Avenue, is a super-busy diagonal Chicago street, dotted with bars, restaurants, and specialty stores. Housing to the east of Lincoln is bigger, plusher…and a lot more expensive than my place, which sits above Wings, a Chinese restaurant that’s been there so long I recall my parents calling it the “chop suey joint.”

  I eat way more MSG and noodles than I should, but it’s too easy having a restaurant just beneath your one-bedroom.

  The drawback is roaches. Roaches and restaurants in Chicago are one of the most reliable and long-lasting marriages going in the Windy City. I get the refugees from down below and am constantly in battle mode against the little critters. Their scurrying when I turn on a light in the kitchen, or even the bathroom, accounts for a lot of my stumbling around in the dark at night.

  They give me the creeps.

  My thoughts of Chinese cuisine and cockroaches are interrupted by Vince buzzing again.

  I press the button to listen. “Dude! Get your ass down here! There’s a cop car headed north, and if I get a ticket, you’re gonna pay for it.”

  I take a quick glance at myself in the mirror—green-and-blue plaid flannel shirt, faded Levi’s, a Carhartt jacket, and Asics running shoes. Cute. Manly. If I do say so myself…

  I hope someone else along Halsted tonight will agree with my narcissistic assessment.

  I hurry out my front door and down the flight of stairs to the street. Vince is out there in the unflattering sodium-vapor glare of a streetlight, leaning against his car, smoking a cigarette.

  I hurry up to him. “Put that thing out.” I pluck it from his lips and fling it to the slushy road. “You wanna kill yourself?”

  I’ve been a paramedic with the Chicago Fire Department for the past seven years. I’ve loaded more smokers into the back of an ambulance than I can count. People always think of lung cancer and emphysema, but in my experience heart attacks kill more smokers than anything, whether that’s borne out by evidence or not.

  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” He looks longingly down at the cigarette on the ground, only a quarter smoked. “Do you know how expensive those are these days?”

  I get in the passenger seat and look over at him, pointedly. “Do you know how expensive a funeral is these days?” I grin. “Oh right, you do, Mr. Funeral Director.”

  We head off just as the cop car is drawing near.

  “Sidetrack?” Vince asks.

  “Comedy night. It’s our Thursday tradition.”

  SIDETRACK, NOT SURPRISINGLY, is packed wall-to-wall with gay boys, curious straight girls, and assorted folks caught in the middle. It’s a video bar and one of the most popular along the Halsted strip of gay establishments. I suspect that has something to do with the videos, which run constantly. If you’re a lonely guy out by yourself, having something to watch on multiple screens around the space gives you something to do.

  It also helps that the bar must have a policy about hiring only the cutest men on the planet to bartend.

  Comedy night is my favorite, though. The only time more popular is show tunes on Sundays, but I’ve never been into musicals. I’m always waiting for the singing to be over, like a commercial, so we can get back to the story.

  I know, take away my gay card.

  But I love all the old clips Sidetrack manages to gather for their comedy event—Golden Girls, America’s Funniest Home Videos, Designing Women, to name a few. There’s also footage from scores of comedy movies going back to the 1930s. Stand-up comics too.

  And if you’re like Vince, who smoked a joint in the car before we got out, the clips are even more hysterical. He always urges me to partake, and I’d love to say yes, but I get drug tested at my job regularly.

  And I love my job. So I just say no.

  Vince buys our first round of Bud Lights while I grab some wall space for the two of us. I watch him maneuver through the crowd. He’s tall, blond, blue-eyed. J Crew model all the way. Mine are not the only eyes following him in his tight jeans and form-fitting white V-neck cashmere sweater.

  I wish I could love him. We get along great. And, judging by the swiveling heads and flirtatious stares as he passes, I couldn’t do a whole lot better in the looks department. He’s harbored a not-so-secret crush on me for years.

  A relationship with Vince Parker would be so easy, effortless. We’d look good together—I’d be yin to his yang. Dark and light. Complementary.

  But. But.

  There’s simply no spark. As much as it would make sense for Vince and I to be a couple, it simply can’t happen. I need that spark—to feel that indescribable something that makes songwriters and artists swoon over the power of real love.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever find it. It’s elusive. And so far, I’ve kissed a lot of frogs and turned over a lot of stones in my search, but never seem to be able to capture what might pass for the fi
reworks of true love.

  Honestly—and I’ve thought a lot about this—I’d rather be alone, than settle.

  Vince steps up beside me and hands me a brown bottle. I clink the top of it against his and thank him.

  He scans the crowd. “See anything you like? Any prospects?”

  I look over the room. Guys are standing practically shoulder-to-shoulder and most of them are young and cute. Above them, on several screens, there’s a vintage clip from the old Laugh-In TV show. I remember it vaguely from my childhood. Right now, Lily Tomlin’s doing her Ernestine the Telephone Operator shtick and people are mostly glued to it, howling with laughter.

  A haze of blue-gray smoke rises above everyone and hovers near the ceiling. I hate how I know my clothes will smell when I get home.

  Vince lights up to join in the fog of tobacco smoke, and I scowl at him.

  “Oh, grow up.” He blows smoke at me, and I wave it away.

  I shrug in answer to his question about prospects. Although there’s a cute redhead with a beard ordering at the bar, I can clearly see he’s with the guy next to him, a hot daddy with a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard and shaved head. Judging from the way their muscles push out their tight white T-shirts—with the sleeves turned up even more to show off the guns, naturally—they spend most of their lives at the gym. “I don’t really see anyone, but hey, the night is young.”

  Vince shakes his head and smiles at me. “No one is ever good enough for you.”

  I smile back and have to wonder if he includes himself in that group. I hope not. I love Vince with all my heart—but all it will ever be, all it’s ever been, for me, is as a friend.

  Imagining Vince and I together sexually or romantically simply seems like incest.

  Yuck.

  Vince says, “Well, I see a guy I met over the weekend at Touché standing back there. Total top with a thing for blonds.” He gestures with his beer bottle toward a beefy, bearded guy with dark skin, black hair, and what looks like a surly scowl permanently affixed to his face. Despite this, Vince says, “You don’t mind if I go say hello, do you?”

  I remind him we’re not on a date. “Law of the jungle applies here.” We have an agreement that all bets are off as to the future of our evening out together if either of us meets a hot guy.

  “I’ll be right back.” Vince leaves me alone.

  “Sure you will.” I know Vince doesn’t even hear my reply. My beer bottle has only a splash left in the bottom, and I’m thinking about heading over to the bar for another one, maybe grab a shot of Jack to go with it this time, when I see him.

  He’s just come in and he’s scared shitless. Even from across the bar, the fear in his face is plain—the restless way his eyes scan the crowd, as though they’re all predators and he’s bleeding. He shrinks against the wall, just shy of cringing.

  I feel for him. It must be not only his first time here, but also his first time in a gay bar, despite his age, which I would estimate early thirties. It wasn’t all that long ago I was in his shoes. Sure, I was out. But only to Vince, a girl friend (note: two words) who lives in the apartment above mine, and my priest.

  Yes, I’m a Catholic boy. Irish Catholic, the worst—or the best—kind, depending on your perspective.

  But I, too, until about two years ago, was afraid to set foot in any kind of gay establishment. In fact, I lost my virginity to a guy I met in a straight bar on Rush Street when I was twenty-two. It took Vince a lot of coaxing to get me to go into a gay bar. I was afraid one of the firefighters from my station might see me (never mind what he was doing in the same place or even on Halsted, the heart of Chicago’s Boystown).

  So, I recognize and empathize with the fear on this guy’s face. The way he’s holding his arms over his chest. The tightness in his body as though he’s coiled, ready to sprint at the slightest provocation. His shoulders are drawn up close to his ears. For someone in a place where people come to party and socialize, he seems pretty miserable.

  It’s a shame, too, because his fear eclipses just how adorable he is. Or maybe he’s adorable to me because he’s so obviously terrified. That might sound weird, but you have to understand—I have a nurturing streak a mile wide. It’s a big part of why I became a paramedic.

  He’s got wavy dark brown or maybe even black hair, brushed back away from his face and covering the tops of his ears. A five-o-clock shadow defines, rather than hides, the dimples and the sharp jawline. His eyes, even through the haze and the dimness, look dark, almost black. He’s got this big mustache. I know Vince would call it a porn star ’stache, but it’s a huge turn-on for me, perhaps precisely because it is vintage porn star. I love those old movies with hunks like Jon King, Al Parker, and Chad Douglas. Maybe it’s why I didn’t come out sooner—my VCR satisfied my cravings.

  Anyway, this guy would fit right in with those hunky, hairy men who populated the old movies like Boys in the Sand, El Paso Wrecking Company, and my all-time favorite, LA Tool and Die.

  As I move to the bar, I check to see if he has a drink. His hands are empty. I wonder if he’d like a beer? Ah, I’ll get him one. It can be an icebreaker. And if he doesn’t like beer, I do. So it won’t go to waste. I’ll get him whatever he wants.

  Because… Because he’s cute. Sexy. Masculine. Because you always remember the kindness of strangers. I don’t know him yet, but I like to think there’s a potential for sparks here. And I can’t resist being a friendly face and welcoming voice when I can tell he’s extremely uncomfortable.

  At the very least, I hope it will knock his discomfort down a notch or two. At the most, maybe he’ll be that elusive connection I’m always seeking.

  When I first started going out, I at least had Vince to lean on. This guy seems to have no one. He might as well be wearing a T-shirt with LONER emblazoned across its front.

  At the bar, I order two bottles of Bud Light. Just as the bartender sets them down in front of me with a wink and a ripple of his serpent-tattooed bicep, the redhead and the daddy step up to me.

  “Hey, handsome. Don’t think I’ve seen you out before,” the redhead says. He’s all smiles. He touches my hand for a moment.

  Before I can stop him, the daddy’s paying for my beers. He tells the bartender, whom he calls Cole, to keep the change. Cole gives him the same lascivious wink he just threw my way. I have a feeling Cole’s wink is given out pretty indiscriminately…all for a two-dollar tip.

  I glance over at where the scared mustache stood and, to my disappointment, see he’s no longer there. Bummer. I turn my head to look through the crowd, hoping to spy him, but all I see, of note, is Vince in a corner, already making out with his beefy friend from over the weekend. I guess I’ll be taking the L home.

  “You new?”

  “What?” I turn to the daddy, giving him my attention. I notice his eyes are a little bloodshot. He seems a bit too eager, and it puts me off.

  “Just wonder why we never noticed a sexy dude like you here before.” The daddy smiles and takes a swig of beer. He’s hot, but in a kind of hard, polished way, like he works too hard at it. In my book, the sexiest guys are the ones who are least aware of it.

  His redhead buddy—lover?—chimes in, “You from out of town?”

  “Huh? No. Born and raised in Chicago. Grew up in Berwyn and live up in Ravenswood now, by Lincoln Square.” I keep scanning the crowd, hoping my guy will appear again, that he’s only gone to the men’s room and not out the exit door.

  “You looking for someone?” The redhead raises one eyebrow, as though to say, “Could that someone be me…or us?”

  I take a swig from my beer and raise it to them. “Thanks for this.” Then I answer the redhead. “I thought I saw a friend in the crowd, that’s all.” I try to peer at all the clustered bodies again, looking for that amazing mustache, but I still don’t see him.

  The redhead extends a hand. “I’m Marc.”

  I shake his hand but don’t feel I’m really present. “John.”

  Marc says,
“This is my boyfriend, Craig.”

  I shake his hand too. I’m still searching for the guy I saw earlier, hoping he’s returned from the men’s room, hoping he’ll sidle up next to me to get himself a drink. I barely hear one of the guys tell me, “We think you’re hot.”

  “Thanks, guys.” I manage. “You’re hot too. Really.” And any other time, I might be interested in exploring this hotness with you, but I’m a little distracted right now.

  Craig leans in close. “We were just gonna head home, actually. We live right around the corner on Roscoe. You wanna come over? We have party favors, and the sling is all set up.”

  “Whoa!” I say, not bothering to try to hide my surprise. “Uh, I just got here. But, uh, thanks for the invite. Maybe another time?”

  “Sure thing,” Marc says.

  Both of them are already turning away, hungry, I suppose, for their next prospect—a more willing one than I am. I’m sure they won’t have any trouble. But I can’t help but feel sorry for them. They’re together, but here they are, out on the prowl. Maybe it works for them. Who knows?

  But that kind of thing would never play in my world. When, and if, I ever find a guy I want to be with in a more permanent way, we won’t be out, hunting for a third. To each his own, but their forwardness and the naked hunger in the couple’s eyes smacks of desperation.

  Maybe I’m just a hopeless romantic.

  I grab my other bottle from the bar. “Catch you later.” I raise my bottle to the backs of their retreating heads.

  I shoulder my way through the crowd, praying I’ll see the guy again. The fact that I saw him and lost him makes him seem like more of a prize than he actually is, but so be it.

  If I don’t find him, I might just be ready to head home. Especially since I can’t see Vince anywhere either. I figure he and the “total top” are on their way to one of their places, or maybe Vince has him in one of the stalls in the men’s room.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  I get across the bar and set my two bottles on a little shelf. I lean back against the wall. There’s a clip playing of the coyote pursuing the roadrunner that makes me think of the encounter I just had at the bar.