Blue Umbrella Sky

by Rick R. Reed

  “Jorge.” Billy noticed the way he rolled the r in his name; there was a lilt there. Spanish was probably his first language.

  “Billy.” He stared grimly around the little cell, taking in its bleak lack of color, its antiseptic smell covering up God knew what. A cockroach skittered across the floor, through the bars, and out of sight. Ah, sweet freedom. Even a cockroach was better off….

  “So?” Jorge leaned a little forward, the metal chain securing his wallet clanking a little. “The time? You got it?”

  Billy actually looked down at his wrist. But he hadn’t had a watch since a trick had swiped it one night down at Steamworks, the bathhouse in Boystown. That had been—what—a year ago now.

  “I don’t know, Jorge. You got someplace to be? A hot date?”

  That made Jorge chuckle.

  “I would imagine it’s the wee small hours of the morning, like the song says.”

  Jorge didn’t register any recognition of the song title. Billy would have been surprised if he did. “When I got picked up, the bar I was coming out of was closing. They have a 2:00 a.m. license.” Billy stared up at the water-stained ceiling, figuring. “With the trip here in the car, booking, and so on and so forth, I’d guess it’s going on four now. Maybe even five.” He eyed Jorge. “Will your mama be worried?”

  The little smile that had flickered around Jorge’s full lips vanished. “Shut up, man. You don’t know nothin’.” He lay down on his cot, drawing his knees up to his chest, away from Billy. He was skin and bones, and it made Billy, even in this fucked-up, inebriated state, want to take care of him—not in a lecherous way but as a father might, even though he was far too old to be his son.

  The boy, after a moment, began snoring softly. Other than that it had grown quiet. Somewhere, one of the cops was talking on the phone, arguing with a girlfriend, Billy guessed, because of the many “baby, babies” he used and the oft-voiced refrain, “You just don’t understand.”

  The wee small hours…. Billy turned the words over and over in his mind as he lay on his back, hands behind his head. He’d sung the song earlier that night to a drunken crowd at a little bar called Roosters, on Western Avenue in the far north neighborhood of Rogers Park. Billy had just been hired to play the piano and sing, his first gig in more than three months, and he’d started off last night, a Monday, with optimism. He’d done covers of Coldplay songs, Ed Sheeran, even a little K.D. Lang, never reaching too far back in time to confuse the sparse—and thirtysomething—patrons.

  He’d started off with Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” and the self-reference made him maudlin. And when Billy got maudlin, he got drunk. A misguided lass, called herself Betsy, with dark hair, darker eyes, and a zaftig body, had sent him numerous bourbon and Cokes when she found out that was his poison of choice, drawing her chair near Billy’s upright piano as though staking her claim. In her blowsy muslin top, heavy silver jewelry, and fashionably distressed jeans, she gave off an air of desperation that reduced her somehow. Even if Billy had been straight, he thought he would have been put off by her. But she was generous with the drinks….

  After he’d loosened up with three or four cocktails, and Betsy had moved close enough to place a possessive hand on his jean-clad knee, Billy had looked at her, smiling, and said, “Sugar, you’re sweet.”

  Her smile widened.

  “But I am as gay as a picnic basket.” He played a few chords of “I Will Survive.”

  Betsy, smile gone, didn’t get the reference. She withdrew her hand as if he’d told her he had leprosy. Or AIDS.

  Billy continued playing the gay anthem in a slow, plodding way—making it almost a melancholy tune, a dirge. “So, if you were hoping maybe we’d hook up later tonight, once I finished up my starring appearance here at this fine establishment, you’d be barking up the wrong tree. Woof! Woof!” He realized he was speaking too loud and too precisely—a sign he was getting quickly to the point of being overserved—and snickered. He took his hands off the keys and jerked a thumb at his chest. “This boy here—he prefers sausage over pie, if you get my drift.”

  Betsy’s warm features flattened, going all thin and horizontal. She stood up. “I was just trying to be nice to you,” she hissed. “I don’t care what you like!”

  She started away. Oh, sister, but you do. You really do. As she walked away, Billy launched into Irving Berlin’s “What’ll I Do?” and sang it out, too loud and a little off-key, not that anyone would notice in this joint. Half the laminate tables were empty. The other half were filled with middle-aged men, hoping for a gal just like Betsy. Billy was confident she’d find her Mr. Right, or at least Right Now, tonight.

  He stopped midway through “What’ll I Do?” and, for Betsy, launched into “Someday My Prince Will Come.” He couldn’t sing because he was snickering and eyeing Betsy, who was on a stool at the bar, doing her best to shoot daggers with her eyes.

  With the fog in his brain, Billy did have the presence of mind to chastise himself. You’re being mean. She didn’t do anything to you other than show some interest.

  The shame Billy felt made his face hot.

  Even though Betsy no longer plied him with drinks, the bartender, a cute bearded redhead, was only too happy to make sure his cocktail glass remained full. By the end of the night, Billy was hopelessly drunk and could no longer find any melody hidden among the black-and-whites. He could barely sit upright.

  When the lights came up and the few patrons left stumbled outside to find cabs, or God forbid, drive themselves home, Billy was hunched over the piano, just about asleep. A line of drool ran from his lower lip to the keys.

  The ginger bartender reached under Billy’s armpits and lifted gently. “C’mon, buddy. You need to get yourself home.”

  Billy leaned back into the bartender’s chest, still aware enough to notice the firm pecs under the Cubbies T-shirt. He stumbled a little, but with the bartender’s help managed to stand upright, as long as he held on to the edge of the piano for support.

  “You want me to call you a cab?”

  “No. I want you to call me lover boy.” Billy smiled.

  The bartender did not. He looked away from Billy as though he were something he’d scrape off the bottom of his shoe.

  Billy’s anger rose, sudden, a horde of bees buzzing inside his head. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one that kept sending me drinks all night.”

  The bartender—and his name, Kenton, came to Billy suddenly—smiled. “And I was the one that forced you to drink them? Held a gun to your head?”

  Billy, who when sober might have had a snappier comeback, simply stared at Kenton, swaying a little. After a moment he said, almost too softly for his own ears, “Yeah, could you call me a cab?”

  Kenton shook his head. Billy realized the point of relying on this guy for kindness was past. “I can call you what you are—a talentless drunk.”

  “That’s not very nice.” Billy sat down suddenly and hard on the piano stool. “How about one for the road, then?”

  “Get out of here, man. And don’t come back.”

  “Seriously?” Billy asked. “And on whose authority do you speak?”

  “Mine. See, I not only bartend, I own this joint.” He groped in his pocket and pulled out a few crumpled twenties. He put them in Billy’s hand and then closed Billy’s fingers over them. “There’s enough there to get yourself home and whatever you think you ‘earned’ here tonight.”

  “Fuck you.” Billy tucked the bills into his pocket. He wasn’t drunk enough to forget that, between his behavior and the cost of all the bourbon he’d guzzled, he was lucky the guy didn’t ask him for money.

  He started toward the door, taking very slow and deliberate steps. He paused to ask, over his shoulder, “You got a smoke?”

  “Go on. On your way.” The bartender made a little dismissive walking gesture with his fingers.

  Billy paused at the door. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was trying to figure who had hired him over the wee
kend—it sure as hell wasn’t this guy. Some big gal in a black-and-white checkered dress and sensible black flats had proclaimed him “wonderful” and told him he was “too good for the likes of this joint, but we won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

  Billy sighed and pushed the door open. Everything he touched turned to shit.

  The bartender called, “Get some help, Billy. Really. You have talent.”

  Billy looked over his shoulder, but Kenton had turned his back as he slid into a denim jacket. Maybe the words Billy had just heard were nothing more than wishful thinking. After all, only moments ago, the guy had said he had no talent. Pick a lane, asshole.

  Outside, the sparse traffic on Western seemed dizzying to Billy, and he leaned against a lamppost while figuring that, if he just walked to the bus stop up the street, he could grab a bus home to his roach-infested studio on Howard Avenue and save the money he’d otherwise use on cab fare. That damn bus stop, though, looked so far away. And he felt like he was going to be sick….

  He never got to the bus stop. Nor did he get home.

  Now, in this cell, while Jorge snored his confinement away, Billy realized the last thing he remembered was leaning against the lamppost. The next thing he knew, he was in jail.

  He’d had a couple of blackouts before, but he’d always managed somehow—by the grace of God—to get himself home, to his own bed.

  He began to shiver. He didn’t know if he was cold or on the brink of quitting drinking, one way or another. Because he knew he’d been playing this game too long—the drinking, the drugging, the promiscuity. You only have so many chances before the game’s over. You can win or you can lose. And with the path you’re on, buddy boy, you might not even get to make that choice. The drink might get you. The coke or the crystal might get you. Or even one of those hot tricks, who never seem so hot once the deed is done and you’re watching them walk away with your wallet in their pocket, might decide to end the game—just for kicks. Sobering thoughts…. At this last, Billy couldn’t help but chuckle bitterly at the pun.

  With fear, self-loathing, and shame for company, Billy Blue joined his cellmate in slumber.

  He awoke with no idea how much time had passed, but with knowledge of two things—the side of his face was caked in dried vomit that had an acidic stink, and a new guard, this one an African American guy with round wire-rim glasses and a build like a defensive tackle, was standing outside his cell.

  His stare told Billy all he needed to know. It was like the guy had just sucked on a lemon.

  “Get up. You got bail. Your neighbor’s here.”

  Billy sat up. A sharp stab of pain, like a blade behind his eyes, made him wince and suck in a breath. He angrily wiped at the crusty upchuck on his cheek until all he could feel was skin and stubble. The room spun, his stomach churned, and he was afraid he might puke again.

  “What?” Billy barely knew his neighbors. The best he could say was that he had a nodding acquaintance with a few of them.

  “Dude. You’re out. I don’t have time to tell you a story.” The guard opened the door and stood there, waiting. “Coming? I need to lock up behind you.”

  Billy stood on the legs of a newborn fawn and looked around. There was a sink in the corner, and with a “Hang on a sec” to the guard, he rinsed his face. He doubted he looked much better, but at least he smelled a tiny bit fresher.

  In the booking area, he spied his neighbor sitting on a bench by the front door. He didn’t know the guy’s name but recognized him from the courtyard of the white brick apartment building where they both lived. He was an older man, tall and thin, with an overall effect of washed-out gray. His skin was sallow, his head almost bald save for a few gray whiskers around the pate. His ears stuck out almost comically. He wore a pair of chino work pants, dark blue, and a button-down white shirt, dingy and frayed around the collar and cuffs but clean. His feet were the only thing that had any color, and that’s why Billy’s gaze was immediately drawn to them. Red Cons.

  Billy smiled when their eyes met, and the corners of the guy’s lips lifted in a world-weary grin. Billy immediately thought the smile looked like something a father might dish out to a kid to whom he’d already given one too many second chances. Kind, yet guarded, self-protective.

  The guard had him sign some paperwork and patted him on the arm to let him know he was free to go.

  Billy approached the guy cautiously. As he did, the man stood. Billy noticed he held a baseball cap in his hands, and he twirled the cap restlessly. The hands were wizened, callused, the tools of a working man.

  Billy wished he knew his name, wished he’d taken a moment to ask for this simple identifier from a neighbor who he now recalled had always been friendly. But Billy was forever wrapped up in his own little journey of self-destruction and had no time for others unless they had drugs, booze, or sex to offer up.

  “Billy?”

  Billy closed his eyes for a second. Oh shit, he knows my name. Who is this guy? My guardian angel?

  Billy grinned. Once upon a time, a smile was all he needed to dazzle a stranger—to open doors. Charm the pants off gullible boys. Cause folks to pull the lever to cast a vote of confidence.

  Billy didn’t put much stock in his smile these days. He’d looked in a mirror. What stared back—a haggard guy looking much older than his midtwenties—frightened him. The whites of his eyes were tarnished by broken red veins.

  “Yeah,” Billy answered. He scratched as his neck, the skin feeling oily and gritty. “Did you, um, did you bail me out?” He cocked his head.

  The guy nodded. “Yup.”

  “Why would you do that? You don’t even know me.” Billy wished he could reel the words back in. They seemed both ungrateful and cruel.

  The man gave him a broad smile, revealing very even white teeth. Dentures?

  “I know you better than you think.” He chuckled. “I’m a busybody. Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window minus the crutches and Grace Kelly. I keep an eye on my neighbors. You’re one of the more interesting ones.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” The guy turned to look out through the double plate glass doors a few steps down from where they stood. “You want to go outside? This place gives me the creeps.” He winked. “Bad memories.”

  Wordlessly, Billy followed him out the door. Morning had managed to rise, despite Billy’s troubles, and it was already hot and humid as only a summer day in Chicago can be. The sky above was not a pretty shade of blue but a dirty white bowl turned upside down. The sun was a feeble yet paradoxically intense sphere of paler white to the east. The air was heavy with exhaust fumes. Trash lay in the gutters.

  Billy felt light-headed, a little dizzy. He wanted two things—a drink and a cigarette. But he didn’t dare ask this guy for either. After all, he’d done enough already. But Billy did need to know who his savior was this particular summer morning.

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Billy said, “But you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name. And I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t know yours.”

  “Jon. Jon McGregor. I live on the fourth floor, facing the courtyard.”

  “Sorry, I must have forgotten.”

  Jon shook his head. “No, you didn’t forget. You never asked.” Jon didn’t seem accusatory when he said this—just stating a fact.

  Still, Billy felt a little rush of shame.

  “Thank you for coming down here and bailing me out. How did you even know I was in jail?”

  Jon took a moment to answer. From his pocket he withdrew a pack of Marlboro Reds and a black disposable lighter. Billy wanted to drop to his knees in gratitude when he offered the pack. Trying not to appear too eager, Billy grabbed a smoke and the lighter and lit up. “Thanks,” he said, exhaling a blue cloud that hung motionless in the moist air.

  “Welcome.” Jon lit up, blew the smoke away from Billy’s face. “For both.”

  “So, how did you know?”

  “Let’s go for a little walk,” Jon said, turning and be
ginning to walk north. “I know a place that serves a mean cup of joe. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

  What I could use is a shot and beer. An eye-opener, as my dad used to say. “Okay.” Billy fell into step alongside Jon.

  They walked in silence, smoking, until Billy could take it no longer. “But seriously, man, how did you know I was in jail? And why on earth would you want to bail me out?” The words “There’s no way I can pay you back” were already on his lips before he snatched them back, recognizing them for how worthless they were.

  Jon stopped, turned to Billy. “I caught your set last night.” He grinned. “Started out good. Real good. You remind me a little of Boz Scaggs.” He chuckled. “You probably don’t even know who he is.”

  “Before my time, but sure I do. I’ve been known to sing ‘We’re All Alone’ inspired by him. And thank you—old Boz has a great voice and some style.”

  “Good song. Rita Coolidge does it better, but I’d like to hear your take sometime.” Jon stared out at the street, finishing his smoke. “As I said, you started out good, but then—”

  “The drinking got the better of me,” Billy interrupted him before he could say words to that effect.

  Jon nodded. “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “And to add another question to the pile, how did you even know I was singing? At Roosters, for Christ’s sake?” In his mind’s eye, Billy pictured the front of the sad little dive, with its blacked-out front window and its flashing neon Old Style beer sign.

  Jon laughed. “You told me. Friday morning. We passed in the courtyard. Invited me to come out and see your Rogers Park debut.”

  Billy scratched his head.

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Not a clue.” Billy didn’t have even the slightest recollection of the encounter, which made him wonder what else he’d forgotten, what events just slipped below the psychic surface without a ripple.

  “I was lugging, like, four bags from Jewel. Wore a diamond tiara and had a white gardenia behind my ear. Smoking a cigar. Clown shoes?”

  Billy laughed and shook his head. “Friday morning’s a bit of a blur.”