Blue Umbrella Sky

by Rick R. Reed

  How many of these one-night stands would end up as a meaningful connection? Billy shrugged. The pessimist in him thought not many, but the realist told him that odds were a few guys just might find their Prince Charming, right there in a bar stinking of sweat and beer.

  He’d forgotten all about Joe as he headed out into the still-hot night. A guy on the corner, waiting, Billy guessed, for a southbound bus, smiled and gave him the eye. He was cute, couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three, with a platinum buzz cut, blue eyes, and clad in denim cutoffs and a red tank.

  Kid, you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree.

  Now where did I park?

  THE FATIGUE really hit him as he drove north on Ashland Avenue. The euphoria he’d felt up and left, like an inconsiderate trick who dresses and creeps out while you’re asleep.

  At this wee small hour of the morning, the thoroughfare was pretty much deserted but still blighted with stop signs at almost every fucking corner.

  Suddenly the giddy high brought on by the whiskey and beer had morphed into despair and exhaustion. Billy just wanted to get home, where he could collapse into bed and sleep, perhaps forever. He could visualize the mussed-up pullout sofa bed, his Holy Grail. So what if it smelled like sweat? It was his personal heaven.

  He just needed to attain heaven—and fast.

  Fortunately, there was a shortcut. Since there was no one around, he didn’t really need to observe all these damn stop signs, plus the occasional roundabouts that went with them. There was nobody out on the road anyway, so what was the harm? Blow right on through ’em!

  As he rolled through yet another intersection, his bleary-eyed gaze revealed another car approaching on the opposite side, headed south. Good night, brother. Make it home safely. He gave a little salute toward the headlights as they slowed and passed him.

  When he looked in the rearview mirror, though, he saw the car hang a U-turn.

  “Shit,” he whispered, when he realized it was one of Chicago’s finest.

  The blue-and-white cop car didn’t put on its siren, only its whirling blue lights, but started after Billy. He could almost hear the Jaws theme music in his head. “Fuck,” Billy whispered. I can get away. I know these streets like the back of my hand. He made a quick right and headed east for a couple of blocks, then rushed down an alley going south, ignoring potholes, then swerved left to head west on Sherwin Avenue. He did all of this at a speed topping out at close to eighty miles per hour.

  He thought he’d lost the cop by the time he pulled up behind his building. There was a parking lot back there with only a few spaces, spaces that required paying rent to use them. But sometimes the renters didn’t come home and the spots were left vacant for the night. Billy saw one of those spots and accepted its emptiness as an invitation.

  He allowed himself a little sigh of relief, followed by a shaky snort of nervous laughter.

  As Billy pulled into the one open space, thinking he’d rouse himself early and go out and move his car before the towing service the locals referred to as the Lincoln Park Pirates spirited his Pinto away, not one cop car but three pulled in behind, blocking him in. All had their blue lights whirling, along with spotlights, blinding, trained on the Pinto.

  “Well, that didn’t last long.” Billy threw the car into Park and then snatched the keys out of the steering column.

  Sweat poured down from his hairline and trickled, crawly, down his spine. His heart did the Watusi. He pounded the steering wheel three times, each time saying the word “Fuck.”

  He no longer felt drunk. Quite the opposite, in fact—he felt amped, clear-headed. The fight-or-flee mode engaged, despite knowing that neither was an option.

  Billy sighed and got out of the car.

  The headlights, all facing him, made him squint. What am I supposed to do now? Raise my hands? Get down on all fours? Billy, being mindful to walk in a very straight line, moved to the back of the Pinto. He simply stood there, squinting.

  The lights were so bright, he couldn’t really see any of the cops getting out of the cars, though he could hear doors slamming. He wondered for a moment if Jon was looking down from his window at the scene. Wondered if he’d be available to bail him out one more time.

  They circled him, black silhouettes against the lights. Somehow, through all his drunken days and nights and ill-advised times behind the wheel, he’d never had a DUI.

  He figured his luck was up tonight. So be it. I shouldn’t have taken that first drink. Why did I throw it all away? He shook his head, wondering how the sobriety he’d been so mindful of, so careful about building, had tumbled down, fragile as a house of cards, in the space of only a few hours. How could I be so stupid?

  Finally one of the police officers approached. She was close enough that he could get a glimpse of her face—a pleasant one, if not a very happy one. She had dark curly hair, and in a better light, he was pretty sure he’d see blue eyes. South Side Irish, maybe? She was a little hefty, and when she got up next to him, she didn’t wrinkle her nose or anything but raised her eyebrows in a way that reminded him of a mother used to dealing with mischievous children.

  “In a hurry? Got someplace you need to be?”

  The jig was up. There was no reason to create some story to try to bargain his way out of this mess. One thing he’d learned from the program was that you were honest, and when you saw where you did wrong, you promptly corrected it. In fact, that was pretty much the tenth step.

  Billy had yet to work all the steps, but he knew them by heart. They repeated them at every meeting.

  He blew out a sigh. “Nah. Just wanted to get to bed. I am so tired.”

  The officer nodded. Her smile had morphed into a little smirk, and he wondered what was next. Walk a straight line? Touch his finger to his nose? Breathalyzer? Whatever the test, Billy knew his goose was cooked—all of them would have only one result, drunk as a skunk.

  People sometimes brought court cards to the meetings so the group secretary could sign and validate that someone was doing his court-ordered recovery work.

  Billy thought he might soon be one of those folks. What a shame. Worse, though, would be the shame of walking into the next meeting and raising his hand when the leader asked if anyone had less than thirty days. Did they want a welcome chip and a hug? Billy thought of the year chip he had in his pocket, earned so very recently.

  Damn.

  He didn’t even think it would be worth it to ask the officer to cut him a break. He’d been driving drunk, bad enough. But he’d also evaded arrest, leading Chicago’s finest on a merry chase. He’d be lucky to get out of this with only a DUI.

  Voices squawked from the walkie-talkie strapped to her shoulder. She nodded to his building. “You live here?”

  Billy nodded eagerly. “Yes, ma’am. I guess I was just a little too eager to get home and hit the hay.”

  “And you’re done for the night?”

  “Oh yeah, for more than the night, actually.”

  He chuckled. She didn’t.

  “Hang on.” She left him to consult with the other officers, who’d stood around, arms crossed.

  She returned in a minute. She was smiling. “Okay. I’m going to let you off with a warning.” She pointed to the wooden stairs at the back of the building. “You just get your butt inside. And in the future, please watch your speed and your observance of traffic signs.” She looked at him, and her eyes said so much more than her lips. They were saying something like Buddy, you escaped a world of trouble tonight. By the skin of your drunk-ass teeth. “Okay?”

  “You got it, Officer. And thank you so much.”

  “As I said, watch yourself. Don’t be afraid to call a cab.”

  And she walked away. Billy watched them all get back in their cars and, one by one, speed away. He surmised something had probably come up on those squawking walkie-talkie voices, something more important than his transgression tonight.

  Either that or he really did have a guardian angel. Who got
out of hot water like this with only a warning? Dude, don’t even ask. Just be grateful.

  He had to sit down on the bottom step outside his building because he was trembling so violently. For a minute he thought he was going to puke, even tasted the hot acidic bile at the back of his throat, but he was able to keep it down.

  After a while he got up and went inside.

  NOW BILLY remembered the slip and was glad to know he’d never taken another drink since that night. Now he could enjoy this brilliant morning sun as it was meant to be enjoyed, without wincing at its brilliance or feeling nauseous and wanting to pull a blanket over his head. Now he had an appetite for breakfast when he got up. Hair of the dog was just that, the literal stuff that Ruby shed when she and Milt stopped by. He no longer got the shakes.

  Best of all, the urge to drink had all but disappeared.

  Everyone deserved a second chance, even a third or a forth. And if we want something bad enough, and if it’s good and right, we don’t give up.

  We believe in it. We set our intentions. We don’t make it happen, but we do let it.

  Billy looked outside just in time to see Milt and Ruby emerge into the morning.

  He smiled.

  He’d open the door to possibility. But first, he needed to make himself some breakfast.

  Chapter 13

  MILT HADN’T seen Billy in what seemed like a long time. In reality it was most likely only a week—or less.

  But length of time really didn’t matter. Not where it counted—his heart. He was certain he’d closed the door on the possibility of having any kind of relationship with Billy, including a friendship. It made him sad, but there was a part of him that told him it was for the best. He knew that pushing Billy away was his own doing, yet he still couldn’t help pining for his smile, his nearness.

  It was the age-old battle between head and heart. And Milt was exhausted with trying to figure out who might emerge victorious.

  Sometimes it was easier to simply live, to exist.

  He took his dinner out of the microwave—a Marie Callender’s chicken potpie—and set it on the stove to cool a bit. Ruby, alert to the smell of chicken, jumped down from her perch on the couch and padded out to the kitchen, claws clicking on the linoleum.

  “Ah, you know what’s good, girl. Don’t you? Don’t you worry. You’ll get some.” Milt rolled his eyes and squatted down to rub her behind the ears in a way he knew she was particularly fond of.

  When he was done, he washed his hands. Then he set out a bowl for his pie. He liked to overturn it and then break it all up with a fork. It wasn’t complete until he’d ground lots of black pepper over it and added just a shake or two of Parmesan cheese. These potpies were a guilty pleasure and probably the chief cause of his recent weight gain.

  What did a few extra pounds matter when the only ones who saw him naked these days were poor Ruby and the man in the mirror? He might as well follow up supper with a big glass of milk and a couple of those terrible but delicious store-bought boxed chocolate doughnuts he’d picked up on his last trip to Ralph’s. On that trip he’d also treated himself to Cheetos, Cherry Garcia ice cream, and a box of frozen corn dogs.

  Feeding your loneliness? he admonished, knowing it was true.

  He’d thought about texting Billy a couple of times and had even gone so far as to pick up his phone and begin tapping the tiny keyboard. The days had been beautiful for hiking, and Milt had wanted company.

  Yet he could never bring himself to do it. He wasn’t sure why. Oh, he had his ideas—irrational ones about cheating on Corky or not being ready for a new man—but those ideas didn’t hold water. Not really. For one, they were just getting tired, like a comedian with the same old shtick.

  Whether it was Billy or not, one day Milt would need to get out and meet some people. Make some friends, at least, of the two-legged variety. He knew Palm Springs was rife with gay men of a certain age, and there were meet-ups and social groups for interests of just about every stripe. There was volunteer work. Hell, he could even break down and get himself a job. Starbucks was always hiring, right?

  Back in Ohio he’d always been the sociable one, urging Corky out of the house to go up to Pittsburgh and see a Broadway touring production, or arranging to have people over for dinner or to play Cards Against Humanity. Milt was always the one to suggest taking a class, joining a club, even simply hanging out at the Elks club in downtown Summitville.

  He’d enjoyed people.

  When had he lost that?

  These days Milt often began mornings with plans for checking out a museum (the art museum was free on Thursdays), a website for a Coachella Valley performance venue, a new hiking trail beyond the ones within walking distance of the trailer park (there were many; Joshua Tree, for example, had dozens of hikes), even the Yelp reviews of the gay bars along Arenas Road.

  Mornings often held the promise of a new life.

  But then he’d retire to bed far too early, with none of the goals met. Ruby didn’t mind as she curled up in the crook of his legs.

  The theme music for yet another episode of The Golden Girls lulled them to sleep almost every night. The pathos of this was not lost on Milt.

  He sighed as he sat down at the breakfast bar to make a mess of his chicken potpie and to devour it.

  Talk about pathetic.

  He aimed the remote near his bowl at the TV. Amazon Prime had a series of video dramas based on the works of Philip K. Dick that he’d been meaning to check out. “No time like the present,” he said to Ruby, who appeared to be listening with eager ears. But even Milt knew she couldn’t care less what he was talking about. She was looking forward, he knew, to the supreme ecstasy of licking the bowl clean when Milt was done. He called her cleaning dishes this way the dishwasher’s prewash cycle.

  Just as he was navigating to Prime Video through his Roku, there was a knock at the door. Milt smiled and shut the TV off.

  It didn’t matter who it was. It was company. Even if it was just one of the neighbors with a piece of misdelivered mail, it would be another human being to talk to. An encounter with a real live human being…. Wow.

  But when he opened the door, Milt was genuinely pleased and, oddly, confused and conflicted.

  Billy stood just outside his kitchen door.

  And God, Milt now knew for sure the definition of the adage a sight for sore eyes. Even though he was only clad in a pair of jogging pants and a Superman T-shirt with his feet bare, he looked breathtakingly sexy. Wasn’t that always the way, though? Men who worked the least at it were often the most alluring. He eyed Billy, maybe even undressing him a bit with his eyes, and came to the conclusion hardly any man on earth could possibly look better.

  Without warning, experiencing such unexpected joy, Milt blurted out, “I love you!” It took him more by surprise than it did Billy, who took a step back and cocked his head.

  Billy laughed. “What did you say?”

  “I, uh, I said—” Milt swallowed, his mouth and throat suddenly very dry. “I said I’d love for you to come in.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Billy brushed by him.

  Ruby, of course, went nuts, panting and leaping up on Billy, almost bowling him over. Milt sometimes jealously thought she preferred Billy to her very own master. His dismay at this thought was tempered with the notion that he couldn’t blame her.

  Billy was kind of fun to be around.

  Milt chuckled as Billy got down to wrestle with the dog, who was acting as though she never got any attention or exercise. It seemed she’d completely forgotten the chicken potpie. She had her priorities straight. Men over food.

  Milt would do well to listen to his dog, at least in this moment.

  When they were through, Billy stood up and surprised Milt with a bear hug. And it wasn’t just a quick nice-to-see-you-again hug, but a deep, lingering squeeze that could easily qualify as a cuddle.

  When Billy pulled away, Milt was disappointed, feeling almost as though Billy took a part of him with h
im as he retreated. “What was that for? You nearly took my breath away.”

  “Because I’m glad to see you. Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  Milt looked toward the TV and its blank screen, as though an answer to Billy’s question might be broadcast there. But the black screen mocked him, offering up no words of wisdom or even a distraction.

  “Of course I am,” Milt said softly. I’m gladder to see you than I should be.

  “Okay, then.” Billy glanced at the kitchen counter where the “deconstructed” potpie steamed. He pointed. “Supper?”

  “It’s a Marie Callender potpie.” Milt scratched his chin as heat rose to his cheeks. Corky used to tease him about his love for junk foods. “Anything processed feels like Mom’s home cooking to you,” he used to say.

  And he was right. Milt had grown up in the heyday of convenience food. His mom had delighted in TV dinners, Tang instead of orange juice, Hostess fruit pies, and TV Time popcorn. The truth was shortcut chemical-laden foods made him nostalgic. He suspected the same was true for a lot of folks growing up during his era. For Milt, they were the equivalent of Mom’s apple pie.

  “I see your disapproval,” Milt said. He slid the bowl down the counter toward Billy. “Take a bite.”

  Billy grimaced and then laughed. “I’ve had them before. They’re, um, good.” He took a step back while, at the same time, Ruby took a couple of steps forward, her nose in the air, twitching.

  “See? Ruby knows.”

  “Look. I didn’t come by here to eat potpie.”

  “Oh? I thought you did.” Milt grinned.

  “No. I came by because I wanted to talk to you, but since I see you’re just about to sit down to eat, I’ll come back in a little bit.” Billy moved toward the back door.

  “Okay,” Milt said, knowing he should forego the pie for now. Be present for your guest. Billy was his gift on a lonely weeknight.

  The pie would reheat just as easily in the microwave.