Nobody gave me any second looks or asked me any questions about why I was there. I felt like I fit in. I was relaxed. Sure, I was peeping a bit, but I did need to reheat my frozen body. I began to even imagine I belonged there.
But that all changed when I saw Tom.
Attired in his dark grey uniform, just as he had been the night before, Tom strolled around the perimeter of the general shower area. He kept himself busy by bundling up the contents of a trash can, collecting a few soggy towels that had dropped to the floor, and occasionally using a squeegee blade on the end of a broom handle to dry the damp spots on the tile floor pathway that connected the shower area to the locker rooms.
I noticed tattoos creeping out from under Tom's clothes, on his arms and neck. I pondered whether there was any chance that Andrew had been the artist responsible for these images. Tom's posture was impressive and his manner was forthright, even authoritarian, as if he were stationed there not just to clean, but to maintain order and decorum. I studied the shape of his shaved head as he moved about the area and decided his scalp was perfectly dome-shaped, masculine, and complementary to his facial features.
When Tom spotted me, I looked down at my feet. A darting upward glimpse revealed a smirk on his face. He had his hands on his hips and stood with his feet wide apart, like a cop, as if inviting me to justify myself. I turned toward the wall, pivoting so that my rump and back faced him, and I let the water coat and soothe my face. I waited at least a minute or two before shifting around again to see if Tom had moved on. He hadn't.
I locked eyes with Tom and kept my expression a blank slate. I reminded myself I was doing nothing against the law. I had paid the eight bucks required for admittance. It was not my fault that my power was out in my neighborhood from the raging storm. What at first looked accusatory in Tom's manner now appeared quizzical. I didn't know how to read the change in signals. I wondered if the other men in the showers noticed Tom staring at me, though nobody seemed to be paying any attention.
Even when I shut my eyes I could feel Tom's presence. Judging me, or inspecting me, or watching me for the slightest mistake. I could have stayed under the searing hot jets for another ten minutes, but I cut my shower short and grabbed my towel. When I moved to the drying area adjacent to the shower room, Tom was gone.
I took my time getting dressed, moving at a sloth-like pace. I splashed cold water on my face and double-checked my belongings to make certain nothing in my locker had been tampered with while I was away showering. Finally ready to leave, having utilized almost my full hour allowed with the ticket I had purchased, I turned toward the exit. That's when I felt a strong hand on my upper back.
"Buddy, I need a minute of your time," Tom said, appearing behind me.
His mood seemed more friendly than sinister, but I remained wary. "Do you need proof of my ticket?" I asked.
"No, just come with me."
Tom led me to an unmarked door that was painted the same charcoal color as the hallway wall. He unlocked the door with a key from a large assortment hanging on a metal chain and flipped the light switch on. We stepped inside the narrow space and he swiftly closed the door. The unadorned room was a janitorial closet. Horizontal wall shelves held cleaning supplies, detergents, tools, and rags.
"Why did you bring me in here?" I asked, showing him my shower ticket, even though he had just mentioned he didn't need it.
A sly tone entered Tom's voice. He was attempting to be genial, but his hulking physical presence over me, in an unmarked closet no less, thoroughly continued to intimidate me. "Relax, you're not in trouble."
"Is this about tonight or last night?"
"Last night."
"Why?"
"What can you tell me about that guy who you were with?"
I feigned ignorance and looked around the room, preparing to bolt if the door hadn't automatically locked behind us upon closing. "I was alone last night. Don't you remember you searched my private shower room?"
"Come on," Tom said, smiling and stepping closer. "It's not what you think. I'm not going to do anything to you. I just need to know more about that guy."
"Just like tonight, I kept to myself."
"No, I'm talking about the guy you walked in here with. The one with the goatee."
"I had just met him at the coffeeshop."
"What's his name?" Tom asked.
"We didn't change names," I lied. I wasn't about to tell him Leo's name. "He was just being friendly and it was very casual. No big deal at all."
"Did he say where he was from or what company he worked for?"
"I don't understand the reason for your questions. Is he in trouble or something?"
"Let's just say I am personally curious. All right?"
"You are trying to meet him?"
"Something like that."
Tom stepped back a pace. He continued to gaze into my eyes. I sensed a bit of vulnerability in him. I thought I understood, but I wasn't sure yet. "You haven't met him before?" I asked.
"Not yet."
"Why don't you introduce yourself?"
Tom shrugged. I was now certain about an unshielded air that he could not help but impart to me. Here was this strapping stud with rugged good looks and he seemed as captivated by Leo as I was, perhaps more so. "I think he comes here on regular basis while working. You should introduce yourself."
"Should I?"
"It definitely seems like you want to meet him for some reason."
"Can't we just talk frankly, as two guys, and cut all the crap?"
I didn't reply. I wanted my silence to convey that I was trying to speak candidly while answering his questions.
"The two of you hooked up last night. That's a fact and I don't want you to deny it. I just hoped you'd fill me in on what you know about him."
"Are you keeping me in this room against my will?"
"No, sir."
I put my hand on the knob and confirmed the door was unlocked. I could bolt if I wanted to. "My name is Kieran and I live nearby. The reason you have seen me here two nights in a row is not because of Leo. It's because I was freezing to death in my place and I had to warm up."
Tom moved closer to me and cocked his head. "Leo, you say?" He looked at me like he had just caught me in a giant deception.
"I didn't want to tell you his name because I thought you were looking to get him in trouble."
"I think you know more about him than you're willing to tell me."
"I really don't. He's a trucker, but that's obvious enough. I know nothing else."
Tom squeezed my shoulders and smiled. "You can go now, if you want. But I hope you'll stay. If you are not yet tempted to be of assistance to me, I can sweeten the deal for you."
"How so?"
Tom unzipped his uniform down to his crotch. "Kieran, show me what you did to Leo."
I wavered. Maybe it was from the stimulation of showering with all of the other men. Or from fantasizing about Tom, among others, last night after returning home from the truck stop. I noticed the growing bulge behind his open zipper, poking a mammoth lump of his white briefs outward toward me. Just when I decided to drop to my knees and give him what he wanted, and which I undoubtedly wanted even more, I noticed his hand and froze in place. There was a wedding band on his ring finger.
"Come on, buddy," Tom coaxed me. "Just demonstrate exactly what this Leo guy received from you."
I twisted the door knob, opened the closet door, and stepped out. "Nothing happened between us. So, in reality, you are getting all he got from me, okay?"
"Too bad. I was ready to give it all to you."
"Maybe another time."
"I hope you change your mind." Tom wrote his phone number on a post-it note and held it out to me. "As they say, don't be a stranger."
I accepted his note. "Good evening."
Chapter 8
The power company succeeded in restoring electricity to the duplex on Tuesday afternoon. I arrived home from work overjoyed, euphoric as if I
had I just earned a scholarship or won a difficult level in a video game. I whooped and cheered, danced and sang with silliness, and jacked up the heat until every room was completely toasty. I stayed home in the evening and watched hour after hour of television shows, interspersed with playing games on my desktop computer.
Getting a restful night's sleep, I woke early and did a round of calisthenics, including push-ups and deep knee bends, before showering and dressing for work. I also had time to write a simple and brief thank you note to Andrew for fixing my porch screen. I sealed it in a plain envelope and slid it under his front door on the way to my car.
During the day my thoughts often veered to the encounter with Tom in the janitorial closet. I had the post-it note with his phone number tucked into the front of my wallet. I periodically looked at the number and contemplated whether I should call him. What would I say when he answered the phone? Something clever or something straightforward? Tom had a rugged allure that I longed for. I pondered whether I had unnecessarily denied myself the opportunity to be with him, despite the awkwardness of the situation, and most especially, because of the existence of his wedding ring.
I decided to treat myself on Wednesday evening to a movie. One of our town's local theaters ran weekly Wednesday specials for dollar movies, dollar bags of popcorn, and dollar drinks. Each week was a classic film, or at least an old one, and while I didn't recognize the Bette Davis feature playing that night, I had no doubt I would find very much to like about it. I had changed into khaki pants, a cotton sweater, and slip on boat shoes when I heard the knock on my door.
I looked through the peephole and saw Andrew standing behind my door. He wore a black long sleeve t-shirt emblazoned with an decades-old album design from The Eagles rock band. I opened the door and noticed that the thank you note I had written him was in one of his hands.
"Very nice," Andrew said, making a motion of his hand that held the paper. "Want to join me for a beer while I'm waiting for my girl to come over?"
I hesitated. Any delay at all in getting to my car would cause me to miss the movie.
"No pressure," he added. "Just a beer."
"Sure, I would like that."
I followed Andrew into his main living room. Like mine, it was a combination of kitchen and family room, with barely enough room to squeeze in a small dining table without blocking the hallway to the bedroom and bathroom. His furniture was eclectic, mismatched, but in good condition. The room was dominated by a series of unframed abstract paintings in primary colors—blue, green, red, and yellow—on large squares of canvas. Andrew did not have a television or clock, and his chairs faced toward the center of the room, surrounding a mosaic coffee table.
"Are you working tonight at the parlor?" I asked.
"No, I don't drink alcohol on the days I am illustrating. I have the night off."
"When do you expect your girlfriend?"
"About an hour or so. We're relaxed about the timing."
"Did you paint these canvases?" I gazed at my favorite one, which hung on the wall behind me. Drops of spheres resembling rain pattered down over a series of bold brushstrokes.
"My ex-wife created them. They are the only items of real value I possess, at least as far as material possessions go. She's now a hotshot fine artist living in Maryland by the Chesapeake Bay."
"I'm sorry," I uttered, assuming I had touched on a sore spot.
"Not at all. She and I remain friends."
By the time we finished our first beers we had discussed the restoration of power to the neighborhood and Andrew had asked about my job at the wetlands preserve. The conversation was light and easy. He didn't pepper me with intruding questions and he seemed to commend me for working to protect nature. While I inquired about his work at the tattoo parlor he went to his fridge and returned with another beer for himself and for me. Listening to him, it was clear he liked the challenge of designing pieces that exceeded customers' expectations and helped them feel better about themselves.
"Do you have a tattoo, Kieran?"
"No, not yet. I don't know what I would get."
"My opinion is not to rush it," Andrew said. "You'll know when you're ready. It will be a time when it has importance to you."
"What do you mean?"
"People sometimes think of tattoos as vain decorations. Self indulgence. That is a perspective I don't agree with at all. My customers are uplifted by the experience, or let's say the whole process, of getting a tattoo. They may be mourning a great loss. Hiding a scar. Celebrating an achievement. Falling in love. Making an ultimate life change."
"That makes sense."
"If and when you're ready, I'll do something amazing for you. No charge, as long as it doesn't take me too many hours. I have to keep the bucks coming in to pay my bills. But I enjoy doing small pieces for free for friends, or giving discounts on complex works of art."
I nodded my gratitude and flushed slightly hearing myself referred to as his friend.
Andrew was telling me about his hobby of tinkering with old cars when we both finished our second beers. He asked me if I would like to join him for a third.
"Isn't your girlfriend going to arrive any minute?" I asked.
"It doesn't matter," he answered. "You're welcome to stay longer. I like the conversation."
I accepted a third beer and felt good that the time with Andrew seemed effortless. Social settings were not usually so untroubled for me. I asked him about something that had been on my mind since the incident with Tom.
"I met someone the other day—a local guy at the truck stop—who had tattoos. I wondered if you might have inked them on him."
"I can usually remember all of my designs," Andrew said. "What did they look like?"
"All I could see were octopus tentacles, with suction cups on the arms, mostly hidden by his clothes but reaching up from his chest onto the lower part of his neck. Another one, in the same style, was on his arm and the tentacles were reaching down toward his elbow."
"Let me think. It's been awhile since I've done anything like an octopus or squid."
"Instead of being curvy and whimsical, the animal's arms were more graphic. Black and grey, not in color. Sharper lines."
"Geometric?"
"Maybe," I answered. "I am having a hard time explaining the style."
"Tell me if it was geometric like this," Andrew said, standing up, peeling off his t-shirt, and exhibiting an array of tattoos, all of which had been completely hidden. Most were in vivid color, including everything from tribal symbols to a Medieval hammer and soaring wings. He bent down close to me, so that his left shoulder was only inches from my face. His skin there was covered with a beehive in honey-colored tones. The sole bee, pronounced and dominant, had angular lines that reminded me of an ancient Egyptian design.
"Maybe so," I muttered, shifting even nearer to him to examine the intricate artwork. Andrew's scent, from under his arms and the skin on his chest, floated around me. It was a fragrant musk, free of cologne. Manly and clean, with a hint of soap. I began to swell and tried to pull my sweater lower over my pants without drawing attention to my erection.
Andrew seemed to realize his tattoo was not a match with the style of Tom's ink designs. He sat back down and swigged a sip of beer, leaving his t-shirt hanging over the armrest beside him.
"Get a picture of the guy's neck and arms and I will be to tell you for sure," Andrew said.
"I'll try."
"Why are you asking about it? Is it similar to something you would like for yourself?"
"No, not really." I stammered, suddenly confused by how to justify my inquiry. Thanks to help from the beers, I chose not to concoct a fib. "It's a guy I barely know," I said. "But he wants me to call him. I haven't decided if I am going to pursue him or not. Is that gross for you to hear?"
"No."
"I don't know whether or not he's really gay, like I am, or just curious or something. Did you know that about me?"
"To each his own," Andrew said.
"Describe the guy to me. Maybe I can figure out whether he was a customer of mine based on your description of him."
In the process of describing Tom, I somehow ended up telling Andrew everything that happened during my two nights at the truck stop. He passed no judgment and listened without interrupting me. I told him about Leo, how Tom seemed fixated on Leo, and the details of the enigmatic encounter with Tom, when he asked me to service him to try and relive what Leo and I had done in the private showers.
"So this is where things stand," I said. "I thought I did the right thing by leaving Tom in the closet. But I keep glancing at his number and wondering if I should test the waters a bit."
"Would you like my opinion?" Andrew asked. He moved onto the couch at my side and turned his body toward me.
"Please."
"Throw Tom's number away."
"That's the only right thing to do?"
"You know it is, Kieran."
"But I don't know if he is married to a man or a woman."
"That doesn't matter at all. He's married. Period."
"Yeah, I wouldn't want a husband to do that to me. The whole Golden Rule thing. There is a reason it has lasted through the ages."
"Go home and flush it down the toilet," Andrew said. "Be done with the temptation. Cheating ruined my marriage. When you're single, you get to make your own choices at all times. And you are responsible for every single one of them. But when a person has a lifetime commitment with someone else? No, don't mess with it. Don't interfere. You are a kind young man with other options. You've got those eyes like David Bowie. Multiple colors. They're appealing, and there are other things about you that can attract a guy who will like you for healthier reasons. And I'm not even addressing how weird the part about Tom's obsession with Leo seems to me. Okay, Kieran?"
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