The Perils of Intimacy

by Rick R. Reed

  “I hurt you. And I understand how. Maybe I’ll never understand why. And that’s kind of okay. But I need you to know, with all my heart, that it wasn’t personal. Not only the T, although that was a big factor, but everything in my life that brought me to that point in your place two years ago, all those things played a part in me being somebody I no longer am.”

  “That’s easy to say,” I challenge, but already I feel my rage subsiding and my understanding growing, as much as I don’t want it to. I want him to suffer more, but what’s the point in that?

  “It’s not so easy, Marc. It’s not easy to admit my mistakes, the hard stumbles I made on my journey, especially when they hurt someone as innocent and undeserving as you. But I grew from those fuckups. I learned how to be a better person.” He pauses for a moment. “So the one thing I won’t say to you is that I regret what I did. I’m so, so sorry that you got hurt, of course, but I don’t regret any steps I’ve taken on my journey. I can’t. All those steps, not just the ones I’m proud of, make me the guy you see sitting here before you tonight.

  “And that guy is decent. And that guy deserves a second chance. And that guy deserves love.”

  Jimmy stares down at the floor, his shoulders moving up and down almost imperceptibly. Still staring at the floor, what he says next is marked by sadness. “Even if it doesn’t come from you.”

  It’s almost too much to process. I stand and walk to the window. I look out at the rain-smeared street scene before me, the way the streetlamps reflect on the slick black pavement. The long columns of reflected light stretch out on the street. I think if I look at them just right, they’re like pillars of light rising up.

  I look back at Jimmy on the couch. He’s lifted his head, and his face is free of tears. Yet he stares off into the distance as though he’s elsewhere.

  At last he notices me looking and gives me a tentative smile. “What?”

  I shake my head. “Just you.”

  “What about me?”

  I want to tell him he’s horrible, a user and a thief. But even I don’t believe it. Not anymore. Oh, I know it will take a while for that realization to get really deep down inside, in my heart, where it matters, but at least there’s a glimmer of something there. Something my heart can see as truth.

  Jimmy leans forward. “Look. If you want to walk out that door, I won’t try to stop you. I can’t control you or control what you think. I can only be who I am. And that person, tonight, cares about you, Marc. And wants to know if we can get past….” He trails off.

  One of the bedroom doors creaks open. I look up to see a disheveled young man peering out at us.

  I look to Jimmy. “Your roommate?”

  Jimmy shakes his head. “No. Just a friend. I told him he could crash here tonight. He’s in trouble. Aren’t you, Frasier?”

  The guy looks from me to Jimmy, back to Jimmy again. He shrugs.

  Jimmy stands. “Frasier here is a tweaker. Like I used to be. Like I always will be, I guess. I need to help him. Is that okay with you?”

  I don’t know what to think. I thought I had a small handle on Jimmy’s world, but that handle just got slippery and my hand tore loose. “Sure,” I say softly. “Whatever.” I turn to the door. “I’m gonna go. Okay?”

  Jimmy’s face looks sad. “I said I wouldn’t stop you. But Marc, know this. In order to continue my recovery and stay on the sober line, I know I need to reach out to other people, give them what some people were generous enough to give to me. It’s time.”

  There’s nothing in me left to say. Stomach churning, I turn and head for the door, longing for rain and the dark, dark night. Just as I pull it open, Jimmy calls after me, “And maybe I don’t just mean my tweaker friend here.”

  JIMMY’S WORDS ring in my ears like an echo as I step out into the night. The rain has stopped, and the sky’s cleared. I can even see a few stars. The moon’s high and almost full. A wind off the Sound brings the smell of saltwater.

  What did Jimmy mean by that last remark? Was he talking about me? Even as I start up the street, away from his apartment building, I chastise myself. Who am I trying to kid? Of course he was.

  Pardon the pun, but it’s a sobering thought. My promiscuity and recklessness in the past—as exemplified by inviting a crystal meth addict who robbed me blind into my home—have been something I’ve glossed over, afraid to look it in the eye, for fear of seeing myself reflected back.

  They say it takes one to know one. Does Jimmy see another addict when he looks at me?

  No, it’s not possible. I like sex, but I’m not an addict, for Christ’s sakes. If we consider hooking up and cruising online as an addiction, most younger, and many older, gay men need a twelve-step group, right?

  Right.

  Of course. I continue on my way to the bus stop a block away, trying to think of anything but Jimmy. Of anything but this night. And how something went wrong—yet I still am having trouble putting my finger on just what.

  What do I have recorded on the old DVR at home? Maybe an hour of Grey’s Anatomy, and a few tears shed will help keep the mind free of more pressing concerns.

  Sure.

  Right now, for example, I notice that the clearing sky combined with the dampness has caused the temperature to plunge. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s now close to, or at, freezing. I pull the collar of my jacket up close to my chin and give a little shiver.

  And then I spy him, standing on the corner, under a streetlamp. He makes me pause.

  The illumination endows him with an almost otherworldly glow, like he’s an angel.

  As I get closer, I determine that he’s certainly cute enough to be an angel. In spite of all the trauma tonight, a little smile curls up the corners of my lips.

  Curly blond hair, a small compact body, jeans, running shoes, and a dark-colored fleece. His breath steams out, little clouds.

  I start to pass by, thinking he’s nothing more than a handsome stranger, a ship I pass in the night, but then he stops me. He reaches out and touches my shoulder.

  “Hey,” he says.

  I start to smile, turn on the charm. Make eye contact. But when I look at his face, I see he’s not the wholesome kid I thought he was. The mop of curly blond hair, his diminutive height and slight frame, gave him the appearance of someone much younger. Now, looking closer at his grin, I can see he might be as old as I am, late thirties, early forties. His nose is a little crooked, as if it might have once been broken. There’s a chip off one of his front teeth. The skin around his eyes sags a bit, just like I notice my own have begun to do. A scar separates one of his eyebrows.

  He pulls out a cigarette and puts it in his mouth. It bobs up and down as he asks, “Got a light?”

  I shake my head and make to move on.

  He reaches out and grabs my shoulder—again. Hard. It stops me. When I look back at him, a little stunned, he grins. He gropes around in his pocket and pulls out a disposable lighter. The flare of its flame illuminates his face even more, giving it an almost demonic appearance.

  My heartbeat quickens.

  He exhales twin plumes of smoke through his nostrils, takes another drag, and blows the second stream of smoke toward my face. I want to wave it away, but I resist.

  “Sorry. Guess I had a lighter after all.”

  Now I wish he’d smile, but he simply stares at me with eyes that seem dead, flat. It’s like he’s sizing me up.

  “What are you doing out on this rainy night?” he asks.

  I swallow, or at least try to. My mouth is suddenly dry. I cut my gaze left, then right. There’s no one around. The street is eerily quiet—and deserted. I wonder how late it is. Could I have been at Jimmy’s for that long? I mean, it can’t be much later than ten, at the latest.

  And yet, here’s me and this guy.

  All alone.

  “I, uh, gotta be getting home,” I tell him and try to move away.

  But his hand, still on my shoulder, holds fast. His fingers dig painfully into my shou
lder, and I start to get scared.

  “What’s your hurry?” He looks me up and down in an appraising sort of way, and I think I might have once warmed to his gaze, thinking how he’s checking me out. And yes, he is checking me out. There’s no doubt about that. But I’m not sure what he’s appraising me for. And that chills me.

  “I gotta get home. Feed my cat.” My voice is higher-pitched, and I curse myself. I sound silly. And scared.

  He chuckles, takes another drag. “You like to party?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Don’t try to pretend you’re all innocent and shit. Party. Get high.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Get high and fuck around?”

  I yank myself away. His hand at last slips from my shoulder. “I don’t party, and like I said, I need to get home.”

  A car goes by, its tires hissing on the wet pavement. I turn to peer desperately at the driver, but all I can see is a ghostly face, pale in the darkness. My fight-or-flee instinct has risen up, like the hairs on my neck. And for me, fleeing is always the best option. I want to turn and run, fast as I can, down the street. Hell, I want to run out in front of that car, waving my arms and pleading for help.

  But I’m a civilized guy, right? I can’t do either, not without the fear of looking like a crazy person. And right now, that fear is greater than the fear I have for this guy, despite the red flags of alarm he’s causing to rise inside me.

  He smiles, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen something as chilling as that smile. It’s completely devoid of warmth, the antithesis, really, of a smile.

  It’s menacing.

  “C’mon, Mary,” he says. “I see queens like you cruising around all the time. I know what you’re looking for.” He leans in close and whispers. “I’m holding.”

  I gulp. “Holding what?”

  “My dick, you knucklehead.” He snorts. “Tina, of course. You want a taste? We can smoke up right back in that alley.” He nods to the alley behind him. Its dark opening looks like a maw to me. There’s no way I’d go back there with him.

  And all at once, I think of a summer night on Capitol Hill, when I did pretty much just that. Found a cute guy, this one dark with a buzz cut and a beard. We were both out ambling around after the bars had closed. And with only the language of a few flirtatious gazes, I slipped into an alley with him and sucked him off.

  The opening to that alley didn’t look all that different from the one before me right now. I shake my head. “I can’t, man.”

  Softly, he reaches in the pocket of his fleece. He pulls out a switchblade, holds it covertly to his side. He clicks it open, and the blade glints off the yellow of the streetlamp. “My friend here begs to differ.”

  My knees turn to water, but I’m able to manage standing anyway.

  “Let’s go, Mary.”

  He presses the knife to my back, directing me with it into the alley. I feel myself going numb, as if the world is vanishing around me. I can’t think of what to do, other than comply.

  We get back a ways, near a dumpster that smells of rotting vegetables and old grease. He turns to me, makes to unzip. When he sees me looking down, he bursts into laughter. He takes his hand off his fly.

  “I need your wallet. Your watch too.” He lifts the edge of my jacket arm to see if I’m wearing one. “Nice,” he says.

  I begin to shake. I hand him what he asks for and wonder if this is all he’ll take.

  I should have stayed with Jimmy. The thought appears, then vanishes.

  “We good?” I ask.

  He looks me up and down.

  And then he raises the knife.

  Chapter 17

  JIMMY

  “WAS THAT somebody special?” Frasier asks.

  We’re standing like players on a stage, frozen in the middle of my living room. The slam of the door after Marc’s exit seems to echo, but I know I’m imagining that. Just me being me—melodramatic. Still, I stare at the door for long seconds, hoping it will magically open again and Marc will come back.

  He doesn’t.

  And the creak and slam of the vestibule door confirms his exit. I doubt that he’ll ever return. And I begin to think this is one I might need to chalk up to experience, to simply move on. What was so special about Marc anyway? I shake my head, thinking I need to make a list. A long list.

  I turn back to Frasier, sighing. “Yeah. He was somebody special. Was.” I smile, but there’s no joy in it, only a sense of deep resignation and sadness.

  “Sorry. I hope I didn’t screw things up.”

  “What the hell made you come out of my room, anyway?” I snap and then immediately regret it. The poor guy has done nothing wrong. Not when he’s here at my invitation. I attempt a smile. “Sorry. You didn’t screw anything up. I think I did that already. What’s that term?”

  Frasier’s eyebrows come together, reflecting his confusion. He shrugs and then shakes his head.

  The word comes to me. “Fubar. Fucked up beyond all repair.” I laugh hard, but Frasier doesn’t join me. When I rein it in, he stares at me like I’m some sort of lunatic.

  And maybe I am. “Did you need something?” I ask finally.

  “I’m not gonna be able to sleep tonight,” he says flatly. “Not in my fucked-up state.”

  I plop down on the couch, put my head in my hands, try to breathe in and out slowly, as I know I’m supposed to do when I’m stressed.

  “And this is my problem how?” I finally ask.

  “It’s not. I just wondered if maybe….” His voice trails off. It’s my turn to fill in the blank.

  “If maybe I had something to help you sleep?” I raise my eyebrows, lift my head, and turn toward him. “Dude, I’m an addict. I don’t even keep beer in the house.” I lay my head on the back of the couch, thinking. “In the medicine cabinet, there’s some Nyquil from the last time I had a cold. That might help.”

  “Yeah,” Frasier chuckles. “Like taking aspirin for a broken arm.”

  I shrug. “Best I can do.”

  He shuffles off to the bathroom. He’ll probably down the remainder of the Nyquil in a couple of swallows. Who knows? Maybe it will calm him down. Not enough to sleep, that’s for sure, but maybe enough to lie still and rest until dawn creeps into my bedroom.

  I hear him flush the toilet, then go from the bathroom to the bedroom. The door closes. In his bedroom, Kevin’s TV is going. A laugh track explodes, making me feel even more out of it, more alone.

  And I suddenly feel out of place in my own home. What am I going to do?

  Should I chase after him?

  It’s too late. Too much time has passed. He’s probably already on a bus, headed home, cursing that he gave me the small amount of time he did. What was it worth, anyway? Who did it help?

  If only he would have let me explain more….

  I won’t let myself go back and regret what I said or didn’t say. All I could do was ask for forgiveness. If he can’t let it go, then I really must. I need to forgive myself.

  I stand up, pace the room. I glance over at the couch, thinking that will be my bed tonight. It’s okay. I’m helping a fellow traveler on this fucked-up journey. And that’s a good thing. Yay me.

  Yet I feel restless, as though I haven’t done enough.

  I glance over at the mirror on the wall. Its mottled surface reflects my anguish back. I don’t think I realized how upset I was until I had a glimpse of my own face. I look stricken. Is that the right word?

  Just as I turn my gaze away from the mirror, there’s a glimmer of movement over my shoulder. I look back at the mirror, and of course, there’s nothing there.

  But there was something there. I swear it. It was like someone moved, over by the front door. I shut my eyes.

  And I see her. Miriam. It’s just like she’s standing by the front door, nodding her head back toward it, trying to tell me something.

  I scratch my head, wondering if I did the wrong thing by throwing out Frasier’s party favors. Maybe a little oblivion, tonight, is
just what I need. And I was too stupid and/or blind to see it.

  No. That’s never the answer, a little voice says in my head. A voice that doesn’t sound like my own.

  I know Miriam’s right. She always is.

  And I think I know what the little nod of her head means, whether I’m imagining it or not.

  “Go,” she’s saying. “Go out and find him. Now is not the time for a text or a phone call.”

  And this time, the little voice I hear morphs from Miriam’s to my own.

  And I make sense.

  I go get my jacket. Put it on. Sit down on the couch to slip into my sneaks.

  I stand. If I have to walk all the way to Marc’s place, I will. But tonight we’ll make things right—or at least as right as they can be.

  I can only do my best.

  I pause outside both bedroom doors and say, loudly, “I’m going out. Don’t know when I’ll be back, but I’ve got my phone.”

  There’s no response from behind either door. That’s what I figured. And I’m relieved. I head out.

  WHEN THE frigid cold’s seeping into my clothes and I feel like the only soul on the streets, I hear the muffled sob.

  I stop, listening. A ferry on Puget Sound blasts a horn into the night. I want to shush it.

  I hear a short hiccup of breath.

  I look all around me. I’m almost home. In fact, the idea of stretching out on the couch with a blanket over me has started to sound very tempting. I can almost imagine the warmth and the comfort.

  There’s another intake of trembling breath. Someone somewhere is crying.

  I look up and down the street. Farther south, a pickup truck grumbles just before making a left turn. A bag lady, in that same direction, totters into view. It’s too dark to see any distinguishing features, but I can hear the wobble of one crooked wheel on the shopping cart she’s pushing, which is piled high with her stuff.