Unraveling Page 4

  Damn those guys for distracting me!

  But…wait a minute.

  Maybe it’s not too late.

  I see him coming toward me from the direction of the men’s room at the back. He looks no less sexy. And no less scared. His eyes are fixed on the door out to Halsted.

  Which makes me think—now or never.

  I lean forward as he nears me. “Don’t I know you?”

  “What?” He eyes me suspiciously. His voice has the tiniest flutter of panic in it. He glances behind himself, presumably to make sure I’m addressing him.

  “Yeah, weren’t you in that movie?” I grin.

  “What movie?”

  Vince and I have this little thing where we go up to strange men we want to meet and ask if they were in “that movie.” When they ask which one, one or the other of us says, “My Ass and Your Face.” But I fear such a response would send my mustachioed friend screaming into the night.

  So I try something a little tamer, not much, but a little. I so need to get a smile out of this character. My new life mission is to take away a little of the obvious unease he’s feeling. So I blurt, “Aren’t you Al Parker?” I lean a little closer and that proximity nearly takes my breath away. I peer into his eyes. “You are, aren’t you? I was just enjoying your performance in The Other Side of Aspen last night.”

  He looks totally befuddled—and no less uneasy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I believe him. There’s something naïve practically radiating off him. I shrug, feeling foolish. “It’s a movie. I was just kidding.” I turn and grab the extra beer off the shelf and hold it out to him. “Sorry. I’m not too good at opening lines, obviously.” I press the beer close to his hand. “You wanna beer? You look thirsty.”

  He looks down at it and moves his hand back. “I’m okay. So what kind of movie is this Other Side of Aspen?”

  Now I’m sorry I tried this gambit. Anybody else in the bar probably would have picked up on the reference—and been flattered as hell.

  But not this one. And I sort of admire him for it. Have I just run across the last innocent gay man in Chicago?

  And is he open to being corrupted? Shut your filthy mind, John!

  “It’s porn,” I explain.

  He looks a little taken aback. And he still hasn’t taken the beer from me.

  “A porn? Like gay porn?” He cocks his head. He doesn’t look offended, just confused.

  “Is there any other kind?” I ask.

  Ah, there it is. A tiny smile. I made him smile. I feel like doing a happy dance.

  “You thought I was in a porno?”

  “Nah. As I said, I thought it was a good opening line. Maybe I should have just said, “Hi, my name is John. And who might you be?”

  He eyes me, a little smirk lifting up the corners of his lips. “Randy.”

  I reach out to shake his hand and realize I still have the beer I offered him. He takes it from me and drinks a long swallow.

  “Nice to meet you. You come here a lot?”

  He looks around the place with an expression I can only read as How the hell did I get here? He shakes his head and takes another long swallow. I notice he’s drained the bottle in two gulps. What a man!

  I point to the empty bottle. “You want another one?” I feel like I’ve neared a shy animal, and one false move could send him running.

  Apparently, my offer of that second beer was that one false move. “No.” He sets the bottle on the shelf. “Um, nice meeting you. But I gotta go.” He starts away.

  “You have to leave so soon?” I try to keep the whine out of my voice.

  He looks back at me, and I swear there are tears in his eyes. He blinks once, twice, and his face returns to that of a scared jackrabbit.

  “I have to go.” And with that, he’s gone.

  I have to restrain myself from giving chase as he hurries out the door. I know I’d only scare him more if I took off after him.

  I finish my beer and take in the crowd once more. I feel removed from the drinking, the flirting, and the laughter. Vince is still nowhere in sight. The couple who hit on me earlier are chatting up some young kid with a thick mane of curly blond hair, who looks barely old enough to be in here. But I can see he’s all kinds of eager.

  I have two choices.

  I can stay and get drunk, maybe bleary-eyed enough to find a halfway acceptable stranger to take home.

  Or I can just go home.

  I choose the latter. Maybe I’ll crawl into bed and pop The Other Side of Aspen into the VCR. And dream of Randy…

  Chapter Six

  RANDY

  I stand outside the bar, trembling. It’s cold out here, with a wind blowing off the lake a few blocks to the east. There’s even a few snowflakes dancing in the air.

  But that’s not why I’m shaking. No, that comes from crossing a line I’d never been able to cross before—actually going into a gay bar. I’ve snuck home copies of the gay rags, Gay Chicago and Outlines, and studied them when Violet was asleep or gone to visit her family in Lake Forest. I knew the names of all the places on Halsted, like Sidetrack, Roscoe’s, Little Jim’s, Christopher Street, and even the bars farther south, down near the intersection of Grand and Clark. I’ve gazed hungrily at the ads, wondering what it would be like to have the freedom to get myself dressed to go out and then actually going and being part of the crowd.

  I’ve fantasized meeting a special guy. Flirtatious smiles from across a crowded dance floor. The gay equivalent of Tony and Maria in the dance scene in West Side Story where they first meet.

  But which one would I be?

  I picked Sidetrack because Gay Chicago had mentioned Thursday was comedy night, and I thought, for my first outing, something that would distract me and the people around me would be just the ticket. I felt maybe I could vanish into a laughing crowd.

  But it didn’t work out that way. People kept looking at me, and I wondered if there was something amiss: my fly was unzipped or my chamois shirt was buttoned wrong. Untied shoelace?

  I simply wanted to stand and observe, maybe get a little glimpse into this world that had always attracted and repelled me.

  I never dared think guys were looking at me because they found me attractive. It was more a belief they were laughing at me and immediately spotted the outsider, the one who didn’t fit in, the one who could never belong.

  It felt as though my whole skin was tingling. It sounds narcissistic—and it is—but I imagined everyone was staring at me (and deep inside, laughing at the nebbish guy hugging the wall).

  I thought of Violet, earlier that evening at home, watching me as I got ready. God bless her, she was trying to be encouraging, but I could see the hurt vulnerability in her face. I even offered to stay home. But we’d discussed my meeting other gay people. I’m sure it wasn’t true, but we both felt that neither of us knew any.

  I’d asked her why she was allowing this. What wife urges her husband to get out to meet other gay men?

  “Because I don’t love a gay man, I love you,” she told me. “This isn’t easy for me. But I never want to see you sink as low as that day I found you at that hotel downtown. Gay, straight, bi, or whatever—I want you around. Henry wants you around. And he needs you around. Being gay doesn’t stand in the way of you being the wonderful, loving father he’s known since he was born.”

  I’d been both touched and hurt by her words. How did I get so lucky? The old self-loathing crept in, and I thought I should redouble my efforts to at least live a life that was, to all appearances, a straight one.

  And yet, I knew I just couldn’t do it. Not now, when I’d removed the mask, when she’d shown me that me being myself didn’t have to mean being some twisted, broken thing, but a person she continued to love.

  A good person.

  So, I’d found comedy night and Sidetrack and decided to try that first. Maybe things like this aren’t supposed to work out the first time. Maybe a bar was the wrong choice. Perhaps a gay
church, like the Metropolitan Community Church, which I’d also read about in one of the gay rags, would be more my speed.

  Now, I find myself walking up Halsted under the bright streetlights, huddling into my peacoat, still shivering. Guys pass me, at ease, laughing and talking, and I wonder how they pull off that trick. Had they always been accepting of themselves? Was I in the minority of the minority—hating myself, wanting desperately to change what some fools considered a choice?

  Some of the guys swivel their heads as they watch me go by. I should be flattered, but their scrutiny and attraction makes me almost nauseous, violated. I never return the stares, but I can feel them boring into the back of my head.

  And that guy at the bar! What was up with him? I don’t know. Did he really want to meet me? Or was he, too, making fun of an obviously scared guy who felt out of place?

  It’s hard for me to believe he had any kind of malicious intent. In spite of how I beat myself up, it was pretty obvious he was just trying to be nice, to do the right thing.

  Did he think I was cute? Was he trying to pick me up?

  Who knows? I’m not fluent in this language yet, and I can’t discern the mating calls of gay men. I suppose, just like in the straight world, walking up to someone in a bar, chatting with them, and offering them a drink is a way of showing interest, right?

  There’s a little diner just east of Halsted on Addison. Its bright lights and intimation of warmth draw me inside. There’s a clock over the counter, and it tells me that it’s twenty after ten. At this hour, the place is relatively empty, still waiting, I suppose, for the late-night rush when the bars are closing and folks are seeking a little sustenance before heading home.

  I stamp the snow off my feet as I stand in the doorway and take in the place. It could be a diner anywhere in the Midwest, probably in America, really. It has too-bright lighting, black-and-white checked tile floors, a chrome-and-red Formica counter, behind which I can see the short order cook: a guy with a pot belly, bald pate, and a stained white apron. He’s flipping burgers and has a pile of onions caramelizing. Those, at least, smell amazing and make my mouth water. There’s also a soda fountain and other appliances back there where the food magic happens.

  Opposite the counter is a row of red leatherette booths with chrome and Formica tables that match the counter. Each booth has its own wall sconce light fixture and jukebox.

  There’s a couple of older men at the counter with pie and coffee in front of them. Their heads, both gray, are pressed close as they talk and laugh. One wears a red buffalo-plaid shirt and faded jeans and the other, heavyset, is wearing some blousy silk shirt with black pants that almost look like tights. I wonder if they’re a couple. Have they been together for many years? What have they seen? Do they remember things like bar raids, having to be buzzed into gay establishments at the door, cruising guys under the big clock at Marshall Field’s downtown?

  Part of me wants to sidle up to them, eavesdrop, or maybe even join in their conversation. Maybe they’ve been through what I have, even been married, and will have some sage words for me.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of a waitress, dressed in a pink polyester dress with a white apron over it. She looks to be at least seventy, with brassy, dyed-orange hair and matching lipstick. Her face is lined heavily, but her smile, which deepens all the lines, is tired but warm.

  “Hi, hon. You want a booth, or you wanna belly up to the counter?”

  I almost say, “I’ll take the counter,” so I can sit next to what I’m guessing is the gay couple already there. But I’ve been conspicuous enough for one night. “A booth.”

  She grabs a menu from a stack at the hostess desk and leads me to the farthest booth in the back, which I like because I can finally observe without being observed back too much.

  Other than the gay couple, the only other customer is a woman at another booth a couple of tables away. She’s young, maybe only in her teens, with dyed-black hair, wearing a belted plaid coat and ear muffs. I wonder why she doesn’t take off her outer garments. Isn’t she hot?

  I sit and watch her eat her cheeseburger. She takes a bite, chews, and then spits the chewed meat into a coffee cup.

  I shudder.

  Nauseated, I take my gaze away and direct it toward the menu. I peruse its long list of offerings. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and I’m suddenly hungry.

  The waitress returns, and I see by her name tag that she’s Virginia. I wonder what kind of life she’s led, why she’s still on her feet in a cheap diner at going on eleven o’clock on a weeknight. Can’t she retire?

  “What can I get you?”

  “Tea? And maybe the hot meatloaf sandwich?”

  “That comes with a side, along with the mashed potatoes and gravy.”

  I glance down at the menu again and order coleslaw. She jots down my order and starts away.

  “Virginia?”

  She turns and smiles. “Yup?”

  “Can I, uh, have French fries instead of the mashed?”

  “You got it.”

  “And can you put gravy on the fries?”

  She laughs. “You’re a boy after my own heart. I’m on it. Anything to drink?”

  “A cherry Coke?”

  “Coming right up.”

  I sit back in the booth, thinking how surreal it is that I’m here in this nearly empty diner on a Thursday night as the snow outside begins to come down more heavily. I feel as though I’ve been misplaced. A voice, suspiciously like my mom’s, back in East Liverpool, Ohio, pops up, “You’re a married man. You belong at home with your wife and son. You need to patch things up, Randy.”

  “Right, Mom.” I whisper and then stop when I realize I’m speaking out loud. This coming from a woman whose husband is at the American Legion or VFW every night of the week.

  Still, my mom is Italian and she raised me with plenty of Roman Catholic guilt, so I wince at her words, even if they’re only imaginary.

  The meatloaf sandwich comes, the anorectic girl leaves, and I dig in. The meatloaf is delicious, with big chunks of onion and green pepper. The brown gravy is deliciously salty. And the fries are actually hand cut with the skin still on, crispy on the outside and delightfully soft inside.

  If nothing else, this meatloaf sandwich and fries will make the night a win.

  I’m just about finished and looking around for Virginia, so I can get my check, when they come in.

  It must be a gaggle of refugees from the bars. There are five of them, and they all crowd into the booth next to me before anyone even approaches them about seating. They’re an odd assortment of black, white, young, old, fat, and thin.

  The one thing they do have in common is they’re all gay. I don’t mean to stereotype, but they’re all just one tiara shy of mounting the stage at the local drag show. From dyed platinum-blond hair to red-polished fingernails to assorted rhinestone brooches and dangling earrings, these guys are not, unlike me for most of my life, trying to hide anything about themselves. They’re out and proud, as the talk goes. No apologies. Take-no-prisoners homos.

  I study them like creatures at the Lincoln Park Zoo. One of them notices me, a guy about my own age, in tight jeans, a distressed leather bomber jacket, and a wifebeater T-shirt way too cold for this weather. In spite of the macho clothes, he’s wearing eyeliner and mascara. He leers at me and makes a little kissing expression.

  I stare furiously down at my plate, the smears of gravy and now-limp fries. My face burns.

  I don’t look up, but I can’t help but overhear. They’re all screaming at once. Shrieking. Except for one guy, who sounds like James Earl Jones, they all have high, women’s voices. Whether they cultivated them or were born with them, I can’t say.

  But the honest truth is they make me cringe.

  They make me feel even more like I don’t belong here in Boystown. That I don’t belong among gay folks.

  But if I’m not one of them, where do I fit in, now that I’ve laid down the sword and the
shield and stopped fighting who I really am?

  And their talk! It’s filthy—they have no compunction about discussing their sexual escapades. “Honey, his dick was as big around as a beer can and about eight inches long,” one of them said, pausing for effect. The effect it had on me was to make me feel simultaneously sick, while at the same time, my dick stirred in my pants. And then he went on to tell his friends, “And the fucker turned out to be a bottom!”

  The table explodes into laughter.

  “I told him, ‘Girl, I ordered sausage.’”

  More shrieking laughter.

  “What did you do? What did you do?”

  “Well, I had to let him blow me, at least.” Then, petulantly, he said, “But I’m still hungry for some semen, you know?”

  I wondered if they were doing this for my benefit. I wondered if they could see how red my face must be. I wondered myself. My face felt like it was on fire.

  I got up, hoping the bulge in my crotch wasn’t showing. I headed for the cash register, and one of them wolf whistled as I passed by.

  “Girlfriend, there’s your top,” one cried out. “Wedding ring and all!” The entire table exploded with laughter.

  I glanced down at my left hand and thought how observant they were.

  At the register, I wait for Virginia to make her way across the checked floor. I notice she has a little limp, and I try to be patient. This time, I don’t think it’s my imagination that I’m being stared at. Voices are blessedly lowered, but I can’t help but feel I’m being mocked. I’ve entered an upside-down world.

  She says softly, “Sorry about them.”

  I shake my head as I grope for my wallet. I have to lift my coat to grab it and one of them screams, “Be still my heart! That ass!”

  “I thought you were a bottom,” one replies.

  “I can still appreciate a nice tushie!”

  Virginia rolls her eyes, but I can see a laugh is playing at the corners of her lips.

  “They’re here several nights a week. Shameless. But amusing. And there’s no quieting them. Once upon a time, I made the mistake of trying.”