“Don’t…” I say, kneeling to pick up my dropped money.
“Don’t what, pussy?” he asks, towering over me.
“Don’t… I’m…” I stutter. “I’m just going to get my… my… my drinks and I’ll be out… out of your way in just a moment.”
As I’m standing, this beast shoves me again and I fall, slamming into the concessions stand. Some people in the lines around us gasp. One woman yells, “Leave that poor little man alone!” But mostly I hear laughter and chortles and oohs and ahhs.
My back really smarts now. My eyes water. My heart pounds. I’m ready to tear this hulk’s gosh-darned head off. I’m ready to rip his left leg off of him and beat him to death with it. I’m ready to… I’m ready to…
To do nothing.
And I don’t have to.
As I regain my feet, Ben has arrived and he’s shoving the muscle-bound mental-midget away and he’s snarling. His scars pulsate. His face reddens.
The jock is forced backward, the sportsball game carrying on down below, behind him. He has his hands up. He’s telling Ben to back off but he’s not doing anything about it. He looks genuinely scared of Ben who’s nearly a half foot shorter than him. Then Mr. Backward Hat Guy looks over Ben’s shoulder, winks, and makes a kissy face at me. Before his lips can smack I hear FA-THUD as Ben lands a solid right hook across the man’s cheekbone and then WHUMP as the guy drops to the cement floor like a ton of bricks made from petrified poo.
Ben stands over him, shoulders heaving, fists clenched. He relaxes a bit when he realizes the guy isn’t getting up.
“Was wondering what was taking you so long,” he says, swiping the cash from my hand and stepping up to the concessions lady.
“Yeah,” he says to her, looking thoughtfully at the lit-up menu on the wall behind her. “We’ll get two large Buds, please.”
She takes the money and gets to pouring our beers.
I’m about to tell Ben what I really wanted was a mai tai in a plastic souvenir cup, but decide that’s really not important now. I step up beside him, beaming, and wait for our beers.
CHAPTER 22.
Over the next few weeks Ben and I are like Siamese twins—attached at the hip. Because I humored his sportsball outing, I was able to convince him to go out for a night of theater—the movie theater, that is. The Music Box in the nearby neighborhood of Southport Corridor was playing Doctor Who: The Movie and I just had to see it on the big screen. I explained to Ben that it was a 1989 made-for-TV movie starring Paul McGann. I informed him it was important because it was the only time we ever got to see the Doctor’s eighth incarnation, and it also showed us Sylvester McCoy’s final appearance as the seventh Doctor (the show got cancelled before they could end him). It was also the first time BBC collaborated on Doctor Who with outside production companies. “It has historic value!” I told him. Of course I admitted that the production lacked some of the charm of the classic Who, and much of the excitement of the modern day Who, in part because of all the Canadian accents where there would usually only be British ones because they filmed in Vancouver.
As you can imagine, Ben was enthralled with all this useful information.
At the theater, which is this classic, funky indie movie palace, there were lots of people walking around in full costume. There were Weeping Angels, Daleks, Cybermen, all twelve Doctors, lots of companions, Time Lords, The Rani, Davros, and a whole slew of wonderful characters. I stopped the guy dressed as Jon Pertwee’s dandy Doctor and made Ben take a photo of us with my iPhone. Ben was really ecstatic to comply with that request.
We got whiskeys and beers from the bar (my treat) and watched the movie in total silence and rapture, except, of course, for all the parts where it was expected of us to clap, cheer, boo, or hiss. Ben didn’t participate, but I’m certain he really liked the movie as he’s fast becoming a true Whovian.
I mean, I’m sure he enjoyed himself. When he tripped over the long green arm of a Slitheen he did sock the person in their big green head, leaping on the green alien after it toppled to the floor where Ben proceeded to pummel its foam-padded face until a flock of Whovians swooped in and managed to pull him off.
But I think he had a good time all the same.
It meant a lot to me that Ben wanted to go to the Doctor Who movie with me. My own brother can’t be bothered to inform me he’s in my city for a little tourist activity, and no one at work is worthy of my time anymore, so I value the time Ben and I share to no end. He even accompanied me to the Hall and Oates concert at the United Center and said it “didn’t completely suck.”
I honestly don’t care what he did—if he did it. I just don’t. I’m sure people think I should care that he may have slaughtered people, but, really, why? I’ve convinced myself that even if he did do it, amnesia sort of works like a get-out-of-jail-free card. Right? I mean, if a man can’t remember who he was or what he’s done, isn’t he a new man? Isn’t he absolved? And even if a man eventually regains full memory, I’m sure a bout of amnesia can be considered more than enough in the way of punishment for all sins. He was imprisoned in his own body and sentenced to an exile from himself, after all. As well, no doubt a person who’s had their memories wiped clean and restored would come out the other end a new person. Reborn. Cleansed. Baptized into a world that must accept him. We’ve all done things we regret. We’re all sinners. God knows it. God loves us. Even if God is imaginary. Which brings to the surface the point of even worrying about it, right? I mean, maybe there’s a God, maybe there isn’t. Maybe there’s a heaven and hell, maybe there isn’t. Maybe there’s a Darrowby, maybe there isn’t. Why bother worrying about getting anything right?
I know, as a human being, that I have tried. I know that a lot of people try. I know that lots of people are giant piles of poo that should burn in hell, too. But what’s the point in trying to figure out if they should or will, anyway? We can’t prevent ourselves from being ourselves—Ben’s taught me that much, at least. And if we have a chance to be reborn—be it by a spiritual awakening or amnesia—then that just has to be accepted. Right?
Over these few sunny summer weeks we’ve also strolled a number of the street festivals this wonderfully alive city has each summer. Among crowds of shorts- and tanktop-clad men and women adorned in summer dresses, we noshed on gourmet burgers (veggie for me!) along Clybourn Avenue in tree-lined Roscoe Village. We perused arts and crafts by very creative hippies and hipsters in Wicker Park. In another of Chicago’s North Side neighborhoods, Lincoln Square, I was elated to discover one of my favorite jazz musicians, Kermit Ruffins, was playing right on Lincoln Avenue. Ben and I drank many IPAs from local breweries and when Kermit ended his set I found him wandering about and told him I loved him and wanted him to be my new roommate, which undoubtedly made Ben jealous because he apologized to Mr. Ruffins and pulled me away. Ben said Kermit’s upbeat music left a bad taste in his mouth and so we Ubered to Ukrainian Village where one of those electronic “dark wave” bands he likes called Austra was playing at The Empty Bottle—this tiny, sticky, graffiti-laden little music bar all the kids love for some reason. I was so drinky-drunk by the end of that night I ran up to the female singer of that band and told her how amazing her set was even though bass and drums were the only real instruments on stage. She thanked me and tried to go backstage but before she could I asked her if she wanted to be my new roommate and again I was being yanked away by Ben. Later, Ben claimed he was only trying to get us out of there because he spotted Katharine with a rather large man drinking at the bar. I think he was just trying to cover up his obvious jealous streak, because it couldn’t have been Katharine. She up and moved to South Bend recently. She’s not avoiding me. Why would she avoid me? She just moved. She did. I’m sure I’ll get a postcard any day now.
We’ve also frequented Fisters more than a couple times—sometimes in the middle of the day just because, sometimes well into the early morning hours because the whiskey or chardonnay or mai tais we’d been drinking (I’d got
ten Ben to try a few and admit he liked them) told us to. Sheryl was quickly becoming my new Madelyn. She’d welcome me into her lair of lovin’ and I’d tell her a few problems before having her bend over a high table so I could whip her buttocks again and again until they turned a red bright enough to be noticeable in the glow of candlelight. I realized the first time I’d visited her that I was timid, but on my second try I grew more gregarious. By my third and fourth visits I was really learning to put my shoulder into the swing and to really snap my wrist at the end causing a gratifying CCRRAAACK! followed by Sheryl’s satisfying screams and whimpers. Sheryl mentioned that she might have to refer me to another specialist after our fifth session and I told her “Oh no no no, you’re not pulling a Madelyn on me” and that was that. End of story. Madelyn had also suggested referring me elsewhere, but I’m a paying customer. And, furthermore, I know what I’m doing. Not only that, I know why I’m doing it. I’m doing it for my mental health. It’s good for me. It’s good for Sheryl, too. It’s her job and capitalism requires loyal customers. Which reminds me, I really need to go see Madelyn and fire her because I’m pretty sure she’s still charging me for all the sessions I’ve skipped over the last several weeks. But Fisters is all I need now. I mean, with Ben as my advocate, I’ve even become fairly good friends with the people here. The long-haired guy that runs the counter in the DVD rental section, Jimmy, even said I might look into performing here as a Dom (the male version of a Dominatrix). They use the term “performer” around here, rather than “sex-worker,” as they believe there’s artistry in what they do and also that they’re performing a needed service—and also because they have to list some kind of occupation on W2s for legal employees. But, really, they’re like a mix between actor and physician. Mickey, the leather chaps guy with all the metal in his face, thinks I’d be pretty good at it, too. Apparently there’s a need for slightly out of shape, balding men in their mid-thirties. I can fulfill the desires of a certain demographic!
I have told them that I’ll give it some serious consideration as a second career though I don’t think I really could. I’m too bashful!
CHAPTER 23.
“Like I said,” I tell Ben, leaning my shoulder into his, “I don’t care that you killed your wife and kids.”
“You need to shut your fucking mouth right now,” he answers, keeping his eyes on the gyrating hips of the woman dancing atop our table, which is outfitted with its very own stripper pole. This special show only cost me sixty-dollars.
“I’m just saying, Ben, I—”
His eyes fire black poisonous darts at me and I shrug and sip my glass of scotch and try to enjoy the long legs and large breasts swaying above me, but I just can’t. She smells like sweat and Degree antiperspirant and her hair is blonde with zero bounce. I don’t know, I’ve always found blondes very blah.
We’re seated in a booth that curves around one side of the table at Flypaper, this strip club on Clark Street. A long T-shaped stage stretches out behind our private dancer where three women strut and bend their bodies into mesmerizing shapes. Thin blue neon tubing lines the walkways, the bar, and the stage.
“Ben, listen, I—”
And he smashes his glass of whiskey on the table, glass and ice flying everywhere. The girl leaps like a spooked cat and almost slips off the large round table but snatches the pole just in time to steady herself. In the time it takes the ice to clatter to the floor Ben has his hands around my collar, lifting me out of my chair and slamming me to the black floor like a UFC fighter. It jolts the breath from me and my eyes roll in the back of my head. The dim, neon-lit room grows dimmer.
Ben leans down over me, hands still wrapped around the collar of my shirt. There’s maybe eight other customers here and they murmur at the ruckus but mostly can’t be bothered to take their eyes off the girls.
“What did I tell you?”
“To get on Rogaine?” I joke and laugh and taste blood. I bit my tongue. I turn my head to the side and spit out a wad of phlegmy red.
I thought he’d find the joke funny. He doesn’t.
The stripper is helped off the table by some guy in a cheesy suit just as a beefy bouncer with ninja-like stealth slips Ben into a half-nelson and drags him toward the exit.
“Hey!” I shout, pushing myself off the floor. “Let him go! Leave him alone!”
Ben struggles against the bouncer, but not much.
Jogging after them I step out onto the three-a.m. sidewalk of Clark Street. Because it’s a weeknight most of the bars are closed by now and the street’s quiet, speckled in pools of sodium lamplight. It’s humid and warm and my skin turns sticky. The bouncer brushes past me going back into the club and I spot Ben walking north up Clark toward Addison. Distant airbrakes of invisible buses squeal and the Red Line abuses iron and wood as it trundles over buildings behind me.
I assume Ben’s headed home.
When I catch up to him I apologize for making the joke and for bringing up his wife and kids. He doesn’t seem appeased so I tell him I know it’s a possibility he didn’t really kill them—that his revelation with Madelyn may have been a false one. I tell him if he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know. And how could he know? He’s an amnesiac. It’s not his fault that he’s confused or that he may very well misremember things, or even create false memories under duress or the power of suggestion.
He stops, turns to me, and appears relieved, like I just explained something to him correctly for the first time. Like something new just occurred to him. Then he shakes his head, turns away, and stomps down the street again.
“Do you want to hit me?” I shout at his retreating back.
Ben pivots on his heels and storms back.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asks through gritted teeth, inches from my face.
“Hit me,” I tell him.
“Why the fuck would you want me to hit you?”
“Just hit me, Ben. I deserve it.”
“You’re losing it.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. Just stop being so fucking weird, man.”
“Hit me.”
“What?”
“Hit me. I deserve it.”
“You keep asking me and I’m really going to do it.”
“Please.”
“Ian—”
“Hit m—”
And there’s that solid right hook, first sending a bright vale of light over my left eye, quickly followed by darkness and a crackling across the bottom of my eye socket. Then a flash of warmth rushes across my whole face, down the side of my neck. Blood leaks down my cheek and I can still taste blood in my throat from when I bit my tongue.
It takes me a while to realize I’ve fallen to the sidewalk and that Ben is a good twenty feet down the road already.
“I’m sorry!” I scream.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, turns right onto Addison, heading toward Pine Grove and the lake.
“I’ll… I’ll see you at home!” I shout, getting myself up off the warm sidewalk, dusting myself off, smiling for some reason.
Ben’s been gone for a few days. I’ll really have to ask him where he keeps disappearing to. I mean, my apartment is his only home, right? In any case, his absences are proving one thing: As time goes on, they make me more anxious more quickly. He’s been gone two days and I’m a nervous wreck!
What could he be doing? Does he have a cot at Fisters? Does he wander the city streets for days and nights on end, motored by drugs or booze or both? Is he spending all his time with hookers in seedy motels, blowing all his money because he knows I’ll just let him slide on the rent?
Who knows!?
But it’s Saturday night and I’m pacing before the living room window. Ben had promised we’d head into Logan Square tonight where this giant arcade bar just opened. Ben said he’s been craving something in a short skirt and knee-high socks and said that hipster-magnet venue would be just the place to find one, especially one in her early twenties.
We were supposed to find me an elegant woman, one who dresses well, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties. She was going to have hair with plenty of bounce. Ben said he’d be my wingman. I’ve never had a wingman. He promised me he’d “score” me a lady tonight. Not that I really care. Sheryl, at Fisters, has been satisfying my needs in most of those departments, lately. Besides, I just want to hang out with my friend, is all. Although the old arcade games would have been fun, too.
Unable to do any of that, however, I’m now at Fisters, in that basement corridor, surrounded by the familiar sounds of suction, power tools, slaps, yells, yelps, and screams. The fake candles on the dark walls flicker. The curtains on both sides of the hall flutter at all the action they keep private.
Having shared salutations with Mickey and Jimmy, I’m making my way to Sheryl’s shimmering green curtain. My heart’s pumping, and my blood flows to all the right places, but there’s a sadness in my heart I can’t quite reach and do not believe Sheryl can either. This makes me even sadder.
“Hey there, stranger,” Sheryl says, seated in a black leather chair, legs crossed, a book in her hands. I believe it’s Dickens. She’s wearing a red nightie that reaches mid-thigh. Her hair’s auburn, but nearly black in the dimness of candlelight. It’s quite lovely hair and bespeaks the care with which she treats it.
“Good evening, Sheryl,” I say, enjoying the pleasantries we’ve made a habit of on my semi-frequent visits.
“Did you bring me something?” She stands from the chair, sets her open book down on it, and points at the CD in my hand.
“What? This? Oh, no, this is mine,” I tell her, ensuring there’s no confusion. “I was hoping we could put this on during tonight’s session.”
Y Is for Fidelity Page 15