by Rick R. Reed
Other addicts know too well how even the smallest thing can act as a trigger. He’s making sure about Marc because he cares.
“Positive,” I say. More sure than you know, I think.
“Good. Even when you haven’t been around any triggers for a while, all it takes is some little something—can be really tiny—to flip a switch in your brain. And then—poof—it’s all gone.”
“I know, I know.”
“Gonna watch a little Orange is the New Black.”
“You have fun. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
As he walks away, I shudder. Will I regale Kevin with a story of a wonderful and romantic evening with a warm and sexy man? Or will I be sorrowful, spilling out a confession because Prince Charming, whom I’m meeting in less than an hour at Café Mecca, recognized me from his past and, naturally, wanted nothing to do with me?
Ever.
I sigh, ready to roll the dice. I grab my denim jacket from a hook by the front door and head out.
Chapter 6
MARC
MY MOTHER, back in the Chicago suburb of Skokie, Illinois, always told me that being on time was the same thing as being late. “You want to be on time, you get there fifteen minutes early.” She lived by those words and expected my dad and two sisters to live by them too. She drilled the idea of punctuality into us so thoroughly we were all anal about it.
I mention this so you understand why I’m sitting in a booth at one of my favorite dives, Café Mecca in the lower Queen Anne neighborhood, at six when my date isn’t scheduled to arrive until six thirty.
I had an interesting walk over here, strolling from downtown along Fifth Avenue, underneath the monorail for a lot of the way. The weather, in addition to the sky turning from day to night in what seemed like a few minutes, also went from being temperate-for-winter to drizzly and bone-numbingly chilly, more because of the damp than due to the change in temperature. Even though Seattle seldom gets down to freezing in the winters, it’s the damp that seems to penetrate into you, no matter how many layers you wear.
Whatever. I ordered a coffee when I got here, and for something to do, I’m looking at the crap plastered to the hanging light fixture over our table—mostly stickers from grungy bands—and the old menus affixed to the wall to my right, from when the Mecca first opened back in the late 1920s. It’s amazing what a couple of bucks would once buy. Even in a dive like this, I know dinner for two will easily run forty bucks or more.
The waitress, a chubby redhead with a diamond nose ring, returns to the table. She puts a hand on a hip, sighs dramatically, and asks, “Stood up? Again?” She laughs. Her laugh, like her smile, like her very presence, radiates warmth.
I decide I like her. Maybe I should quit my corporate job and get a position waiting tables. I seem to have developed a taste for restaurant servers lately. I glance down at my watch. “It’s only twenty after. He’s not even supposed to be here until six thirty.”
She tops off my coffee. “He? He? Seriously?” She sighs. “There go my dreams.” She bats her lashes at me, and I smile. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon. I doubt anyone would want to stand you up, mister.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
“I would,” she says. “I really would.” She walks away.
I do start to get a little worried when six thirty arrives and no Jimmy. At 6:40, no Jimmy. At six forty-five, the door opens and I look up, hopeful, as I have every time the door opened for the last half hour, and see only a middle-aged gay male couple standing there, waiting. They’re kind of sweet. I can immediately tell they’re together—their rapport with each other is easy and familiar. I overhear a few words—cheat day and french fries with gravy.
I envy them.
As Big Red, as I’ve come to call her, though only mentally, leads them to a booth behind me, I spy Jimmy enter.
My heart beats a little faster for a couple of reasons. One—he’s here! He did show up, even if he is late, really late by my mom’s standards. And isn’t there some saying about 80 percent of success coming from showing up? The bar is low in our world, especially in mine. But he’s here! Second—I’m just happy to see him and to know that he’s not only shown up, but he came to see me.
I smile and sort of half stand as he approaches. He looks good, in a beat-up denim jacket, gray cargo pants, black boots, and a black Rat City Rollergirls T-shirt. If I had a favorite roller derby team, Seattle’s Rat City girls would definitely be it, mainly because I don’t know of any other roller derby teams. His eyes meet mine, and they’re clear and a shade of blue that reminds me of the water in Elliott Bay.
“Hey, stranger,” I say softly, extending my hand.
He grips it, and his grip is firm but not bone-crunching. It was my father who taught me that you could tell a lot about a man from the way he shook your hand. Jimmy seems confident and warm, sure of himself.
But then, I suppose, so do I. I just know how to properly shake hands is all. On the inside I’m nervous, once again thinking how I’m way too old for this pup. What on earth does he see in me?
He slides in across, and I blurt it out before I have a chance to censor myself. “You smoke?” I mean, I don’t really need to ask. The smell of cigarettes surrounds him like a cloud. Usually a guy being a smoker is a deal-breaker for me, but I don’t know, maybe I could make an exception? People can change, after all.
He looks down at the table and smiles both sheepishly and charmingly. He looks up at me as he struggles. “Yeah. Do I stink?”
I shrug. “Maybe a little. It’s okay.”
“I’m glad you don’t. At least one of us is clean.”
“That’s an odd thing to say. How do you know I don’t?”
He sets his jacket to the side, and I can tell he’s thinking about how to respond. After a moment he says, “I don’t smell anything on you.” He leans forward, nose twitching. “Except maybe a little, uh, what is that, anyway?”
“Tom Ford,” I answer. “My mom gave it to me for Christmas. I hope you’re not one of those guys who’s anticologne?” I pick up the paper napkin on the table. “I can wipe it off.”
Jimmy wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe we can shower together later… get the stink off both of us.”
I laugh but realize his little flirtation embarrasses me. I know because I feel heat rise to my cheeks.
“Ah! Look at you!” He points. “You’re blushing.”
“Sorry.” I stare down at the menu, face heating up even more. And then I feel his hand on mine. “I was just teasing. It’s cute. I don’t see blushing much anymore. I think it’s charming. And kind of sexy.” He gives my hand a little squeeze before pulling away. My face feels even hotter, if that’s possible. And things are stirring farther south. I take a gulp of my water.
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry. I know I’m late. Too late. No excuses, other than dallying around outside, making like a chimney. I hope that doesn’t bother you too much.”
I shake my head. “Oh, not at all,” I say, lying.
He opens his menu. “So what’s good here?”
“You tell me. You’re the professional.”
“Yeah. This place is probably our main competition.”
“Sheesh! I should have thought of that. This is the same old fare you see day in and day out. You’re probably sick of meatloaf and hot turkey sandwiches.” I meet his eyes. “You wanna go someplace else? There’s that Thai place over on Mercer. Or that Mexican one down the street.”
“It’s okay.” He smiles. “I like this kind of food. Especially on a night like tonight—chilly, damp.” He peers down at the menu, running a finger over the offerings. Aside from the aforementioned meatloaf, there’s chicken-fried steak, fish and chips, and chili. “It warms me up inside and out.”
Big Red comes back. She winks at me and grins, gives me a little oh-so-subtle thumbs-up, barely raising her hand above table level. “What can I get you boys to drink? Something stronger than java, maybe?”
A beer sounds lovely. “A draft beer’d be awesome, whatever you have that leans toward an IPA.”
“Gotcha.” She turns to Jimmy.
“Just a Coke,” he tells her.
“Coming right up.” She walks away.
“Not a drinker?”
He shakes his head and smiles. “Nah. Not anymore. Smoking’s about my only vice these days.” He stares down at the table, then looks up at me, clearly a little sheepish. “I might as well put it right out there. I’m in recovery.” He nods, although I’m not quite sure why. Nerves?
“That’s cool. And probably strike number two for me, anyway?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“It’s bad enough I bring you to the same kind of place you work in every day. I also have to bring you to a joint that has the slogan, ‘Alcoholics serving alcoholics since 1929.’”
That seems to tickle him, and we both laugh. When we stop, I ask, “Is it okay with you if I have a beer? I don’t have to, you know. I can send it back.”
He puts his hand back on mine, touching me for a second. “It’s okay, Marc. Alcohol wasn’t my problem anyway. Much. But I find it’s best for me, right now, to stay away from any mind-altering substances.” His expression goes dark and faraway for a bit. When he comes back, he asks, “Can we talk about something else? How was work today?”
“You don’t want to hear about that. My title is communications specialist, but really it should just be administrative assistant. I get to do a bit of writing, but it’s all about super dry stuff—government health-care contracts.” I grin. “You want to hear more about that?”
He chuckles. “I guess not.”
We keep things simple for the next few minutes. Talking about the weather. How we’re both not from here—which is fairly common. I’ve never lived anywhere that seems to have so few hometown people.
We order. He gets a cheeseburger and fries, and I get the hot turkey sandwich, substituting the mashed potatoes with fries and gravy all over everything. Healthy! But so good.
After we’ve finished our meals, things get quiet. There are only a few people in the restaurant—an old man at the counter with a copy of the Seattle Times folded just so next to his plate. I haven’t noticed the other gay couple leave yet, so I assume they’re somewhere behind us. But there’s a mood around us—kind of slow and serene. If I close my eyes, I feel like I can almost hear the rain coming down outside.
“It feels good,” I let myself say. “Just being here with you.” Heat rises to my face yet again, wondering if this is too much of a confession, like when you say “I love you” to a guy too quickly.
But Jimmy smiles. “It does. I’m pretty comfortable too.” He reaches over to squeeze my hand again and then lets go. I like how he touches me. It’s almost like he’s reassuring me or, I don’t know, reassuring himself that I’m here.
I push my plate away, amazed that I ate every last bite. “Why?”
“Why what?” He pushes his own plate away, and I can see why he’s so lean. He only ate half his meal. All those fries going to waste. If it wasn’t our first date, I’d be snatching them up.
“Why did you want to come out with me? I’m old enough to be your dad.”
“Oh, you are not!” He kicks me under the table. “How old are you, anyway? Thirty-four? Thirty-five? Don’t hit me if I’m guessing too old.”
“I’m flattered. I’m sixty.”
Jimmy’s eyes widen.
I laugh. “You should see your face. I was kidding.”
He gives a slow shake of his head. “If that was the case, I’d want to know your secret, because you would be remarkably, almost miraculously, well preserved.”
“I’ll be forty in a few months.”
Jimmy lets out a low whistle. “Wow. Ancient. Should I call you Pops?”
I smirk. “How old are you?” Do I really want to know?
“Twenty-three.”
I nod. “See? I could be your dad.”
“If you had me when you were, like, sixteen, I suppose.”
“It’s possible. I lost my virginity to a girl in my high school, right about at that age.” I laugh. “I was confused. I remember it was in the front seat of my mom’s car in the elementary school parking lot.” I snicker. “If she’d gotten pregnant, here you’d be, calling me Pops.”
“I’m not gonna call you Pops, or Daddy, or say that you look good for your age,” Jimmy tells me. “You just look good, man.” He smiles. “I’m not into ages. Older. Younger. In between. It doesn’t really matter.” He winks. “I just like men.”
“Me too. So we have something in common.”
“Good thing to have in common,” Jimmy says. “Especially for a couple of homos.”
The conversation grinds to a halt. I don’t want to leave, but the harder I try to think of something to say, the more elusive the perfect conversational gambit becomes. This is what happens to me. I’ve always been the quiet guy, Mr. Still Waters, the loner. The kind who prefers curling up with a good book to going out to a party.
Except for tonight. I want to be with Jimmy. Just looking at him makes me feel warm—yeah, there’s lust there, but there’s something more.
At an absolute loss, I finally push myself to ask what I think is a fairly innocent question. “So, what brought you to Seattle?”
He leans back in his seat, staring at me like he’s thinking it over. “I could be a smartass and say a Greyhound. Which is the truth, but I don’t think that’s what you’re asking.” He sighs. “I needed to get away from home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Chester, West Virginia. Ever heard of it?”
I shake my head.
“I’m not surprised. It’s only a couple thousand people. But….” He trails off, widening his eyes, like he’s about to deliver the world’s most delightful surprise. “They have the world’s biggest teapot there.”
“What?” The distinction is so weird it makes me laugh.
“Yeah, right on the main road coming into town. It’s like a little house.”
“Why?”
“It’s pottery country, I guess. Homer Laughlin? The company that makes Fiesta ware? Please tell me you’ve heard of that?”
I nod.
“It’s made in the area.”
We’re quiet for a few minutes. Then Jimmy says, “I had to get out, for a lot of reasons. One, there’s so little work in the area. It’s pretty poor.” He shrugs. “It’s pretty too, but that doesn’t make up for the poverty. Rolling Appalachian foothills don’t put food on the table. And you wouldn’t want to drink the water out of the Ohio River.”
“So you just up and came to Seattle?”
“Yup. I’d just gotten laid off from my job as a greeter at the Walmart across the river and thought… why not? I liked Kurt Cobain’s music. I was a fan of Grey’s Anatomy.”
“Both excellent reasons to move to the Emerald City. And that brought you all the way across the country?”
“Well, those and wanting to get as far away as possible from my crazy-ass mother.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, I thought.
“Oh, I have one of those myself,” I say, not because it’s true, but to be agreeable and to get Jimmy to continue talking, to spill his personal beans.
“I don’t want to get into a crazy mom contest.” Jimmy looks toward the counter, where Big Red is mixing up a milkshake for a guy in sweats and a camo jacket who’s just come in and seated himself on one of the stools. There’s something winsome, and also very sad, in Jimmy’s expression.
“It’s okay. We can talk about something else.”
“Nah. You should know what you’re dealing with before you go any further.” Jimmy turns back to me, eyeing me almost like it’s a challenge. “My mom was a drunk. She was a brilliant woman—at one time. She even taught French at Kent State, which wasn’t too far away. But then she met my dad.”
“Was he crazy too?”
Jimmy blew out
a breath of air. “You don’t know the half of it! I’m gonna need a cigarette if I’m gonna tell you my life story. You wanna book? Get out of here?”
I hadn’t considered much beyond the present. I didn’t know if I was ready for a my-place-or-yours moment.
He must have read my mind. “We don’t have to go anywhere in particular. We can just walk around a bit.”
“But it’s raining.”
“Yeah. And you’re a Seattleite now. You don’t let the rain slow you down. Don’t tell me you own an umbrella.” He grins, and I think how cute it is—the way his lips turn up at one corner, kind of lopsided. I have a moment of déjà vu, like he reminds me of someone. It passes.
“You’re right.” I give a little nod to Big Red, who scurries over to the table. Before Jimmy has a chance to protest, I hand her my card. “Can you ring us up?”
OUTSIDE, WE wander around for a while, silent, enjoying the rain. It’s slowed now to a gentle mist, and it feels good, actually, once you get past the initial shock of the chill. I’m stunned when Jimmy reaches over and takes my hand, intertwining my fingers with his.
I glance at him, sure my surprise is obvious.
“It’s cool,” he says. “No one cares.” He smiles. “Except me.”
I squeeze his hand for a moment and let our two palms continue their first kiss. Even though Seattle’s a very liberal and progressive city, there are still things like gay-bashings here, so I can’t help but feel a little concerned. I’m not used to public displays of affection, and I find myself looking around guardedly before I tell myself to cut it out. We have just as much right as anyone else on a first date to hold hands. And if someone has a problem with it, well, that’s their problem.
Besides, there aren’t many other people out and about right now.
I try to relax, to let go of my worry and apprehension. I remind myself how much I like the warmth and touch of this cute guy beside me.
At last we come to a little bar just at the base of Queen Anne Hill. It’s called Lily’s. Unpretentious, it has a white brick front with a large glass picture window. The glass is tinted, so we can’t see inside. A big awning covers a patio, underneath which are grouped about a half dozen tables. With the rain and the chill in the air, no one’s sitting at any of them. I think of grabbing one of those tables, since we’re already chilled and damp, and Jimmy can tell me more about his crazy-ass mom and growing up in a town that has as its claim to fame, the world’s largest teakettle. But it’s a bar, and I don’t want to make Jimmy uncomfortable again.