If only that were true.
I patted her head. She lifted it to look up at me, yawned, then lowered her head back to her paws to fall back into a slumber. In a matter of seconds, she was snoring.
I envied her.
Suitably attired, I snatched up my cell phone and punched in 911. After giving the dispatcher my city and street address, I told her what was going on. After asking me a few questions, she said they would send someone around.
As I waited for a Chicago police car to arrive, I paced. It was after three o’clock in the morning now, and I wondered what I would say to the officers once they got there. “Someone sneaked into my house through the back window. They didn’t really do anything, but I’m pretty darn sure they laid out one of my chef’s knives on the butcher’s block!” I could just see their concerned faces—only I feared the concern would be for my mental health.
I didn’t have to wonder for long. It must have been a slow crime night in the windy city. Within a few minutes, I saw the flashing blue lights of a police cruiser outside my living room window. I pulled on a pair of jeans and buzzed the officer in.
Officer Yore, as he told me his name was, was younger than I was—stocky with dark curly hair and a friendly nature. He seemed surprisingly alert for three a.m., but then I suppose that came with his territory.
I told him everything that had happened, starting with Cora’s late-night distress that had begun the whole bizarre tale. I wondered now if Cora had actually seen the intruder, if the image was locked in her little dog brain. I wondered if she recognized him from earlier that day. The thought caused a little jolt to course through me.
I led Officer Yore into the kitchen and showed him the knife.
“Do you want to dust it for prints?” I asked.
He smiled at me and shrugged. “I don’t know if that’ll be necessary.”
“What? Why not?”
“It looks like you did interrupt a home invasion. I can’t say what the knife was doing out, but I have to be honest with you, Mr—”
“Embert.”
“Mr. Embert. We see a lot of break-ins in this neighborhood. And the sad truth is, most of them are never caught. I can take the knife in as evidence if you want. And we’ll certainly beef up the patrols in the area, but I have to tell you I don’t know how much good it will do.”
Great. Very comforting. “Well, thanks.”
“I will make a report on the incident. You be sure and call us if anything else occurs. And you might want to consider having your locks changed, just to be on the safe side.”
I saw him out the door, knowing that the call was pointless. But what could the police really do, anyway?
He didn’t take the knife with him.
Chapter 3
Morning came and, with it, some relief. A few hours of sleep, a little bright morning sun, the city looking clean and refreshed, and my worries from the night before had dissipated. Oh sure, they were still there. It would be a long time before that feeling of fear and violation went away, but at least at the moment the world appeared to be a little safer.
I went through my usual routine, taking Cora out for a walk down to the lakefront and back, where—along the way—she did her usual business and checked her pee-mail at every bush and hydrant along the way. I ate a bowl of cereal. I showered and made the bed. I checked my e-mail, paranoia and suspicion causing me to wonder if there would be a strange message waiting for me, but there was nothing.
I was just about to head out the door to catch the bus for work when I realized that all the commotion the night before had made me completely forget the other handwritten piece of mail I had received—the invitation from Tabby. I hurried back to the dining room table, where I had left my mail the afternoon before. It now seemed a longer time ago than a mere thirteen hours or so. The dreaded card, with its feather, was still there.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” I said to Cora and took the card, holding it by one edge and carrying it out to the kitchen as though it was something slimy, and dropped it into the garbage, along with its envelope. I wondered briefly if I should keep it as evidence, or if I should have told the officer about it. “Right,” I said to Cora, who looked up at me and cocked her head. “He’d really think I was the nutty one, then.”
I was halfway out of the kitchen when I decided I didn’t want the offending card in my house, so I turned back, got the garbage bag, and pulled it from the trashcan. I took it into the bathroom, where I had thrown away the condom from my bed and emptied that can into the bag as well. I knotted the bag and set it by the front door.
Can you open Tabby’s invitation already, please? I went back to the table, snatched up the hot pink envelope, and tore it open. I smiled as I read the little card tucked inside. It was headlined on the outside with the words:
Halloween is Amateur Night
I opened the card and read the details. “Since every Tom, Dick, and Mary will be out reveling on All Saint’s Eve, making drunken fools of themselves and clogging Halsted Street, I am boycotting this year’s celebration. However, I am having my own masquerade at la casa of yours truly and would be elated if you, my BFF, my longtime companion, my portal to ecstasy, would honor me with your presence.” I had to chuckle. Tabby had probably sent this same invitation—with the same wording—to dozens of guys. But I couldn’t help it—it did make me feel warm and special. I checked the date when the party would be held—a month hence, on the Saturday before Halloween at Tabby’s Roscoe Avenue condo.
I wouldn’t miss a party at Tabby’s for the world. They were decadent, overproduced, and often had way too much alcohol and drugs on offer. A person would have to be insane to even contemplate driving home afterward. A sane person would plan on taking the Monday off after one of Tabby’s soirees and perhaps even the Tuesday—simply to recover.
He concluded with the message, No need to RSVP, my sweet. No one can resist me! And he was right. Ah, to have such confidence!
Although it was true I couldn’t resist the big old queen, I still had been raised right and thought it was only proper to RSVP. Besides, it was nice to feel excited and optimistic about something, rather than terrified and violated as I had only the night before. It would take but a minute to text Tabby, simply to show some manners.
I pulled out my iPhone, located Tabby among my contacts—his default pic was one of him in a gauze caftan, lifting a cigarette in a holder—and quickly typed in: Can’t wait for the masquerade and even more the revealing of the faces behind the masks—and the bodies under the costumes. See you then, sugar.
Now, if I didn’t get moving, I would miss my bus and be late. I put down a couple of puppy pads for Cora—someday I dreamed of being able to afford a dog walker or even doggy daycare—made sure all the windows were locked, and, finally, pulled the door closed behind me, locking both the deadbolt and the mortise lock.
Once outside, I decided to take the el downtown—it was a little more reliable and my morning had me running late.
As I hurried through the alley connecting Sherwin and Jarvis Avenue (where my el stop was), my phone began to sing in my pocket. Someday, I would have to change the Lady Gaga singing “Telephone” ringtone. It was so gay and so cliché, it was embarrassing.
I stuck a finger in my ear as an el train rumbled overhead and shouted hello into the phone. I could see that it was Tabby, but could only hear the muffled cadence of words with the train roaring so close by.
I shouted hello again. “Sorry, I can’t hear you! One sec!”
Once the train had whooshed by, roaring and crackling with electricity, I could finally hear Tabby. “What is wrong with you, sweetheart? Have you gone deaf? Have you butched it up and found work in some factory with big, noisy machinery and sweaty men?”
I pictured Tabby sitting in his condo. I imagined him in his big bed with its leather headboard, surrounded by high thread-count linen sheets and a tray upon which would be soft-boiled eggs in cups, toast cut into strips, and good Kona c
offee. He would be wearing satin pajamas over his fleshy form.
“I wish. No, I’m walking to the el stop and a train went by. I just wanted you to know I was coming to your party. I texted because I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Darling, I’ve been up and about for hours. So much to do!” The comment made me smile. All of Tabby’s friends had speculated on how the man supported himself, since he didn’t appear to have a job, or, in fact, to have ever had one. Yet he lived in a luxurious four-bedroom condo in a vintage building at the very end of Roscoe, with views of Lake Michigan. Most of us assumed he was a trust-fund baby, yet we never had the nerve to broach the subject with him. Those who had dared to do so in the past were treated to withering stares—finances were simply something Tabby did not discuss.
Whatever. I was just glad he had the funds to throw fabulous parties every quarter or so—they lent such drama and glamour to my otherwise humdrum existence. And there was always the promise—as yet unfulfilled—of meeting Mr. Right at one of his gatherings.
Tabby went on. “But I’m glad you’re coming and hope you won’t let me down with your costume. I just know that fertile imagination of yours will dream up something brilliant!” Tabby screeched.
“Oh, you can count on it. I already have something over-the-top in mind. I’m going to need a good long trench coat to wear into the lobby.”
I had no idea what I would be wearing.
“Too, too much! I knew there was a reason I loved you with all my heart. Now Tabby must run—a jillion things to do today.” He clicked off without giving me a chance to say good-bye. But that was Tabby for you, full of bluster and haste. It wasn’t until after he was gone one was left wondering what the rush was for.
But, personally, I needed to run. I could hear the el train rumbling south toward my stop from Howard Street.
Chapter 4
The month leading up to Tabby’s masquerade contained no more strange greeting cards, nor any late-night, knife-wielding visits to my apartment. There were a few condoms left on my sheets, but unlike the one left by my intruder, the slippery liquid within was not hand cream and they were left there with my full knowledge and consent.
In short, the month, with its unsuccessful dates, boring days at work, and parade of television shows and movies that were quite unworthy of my time, was uneventful.
The terror and suspicion faded, until I no longer approached my mailbox with trepidation. After a couple of weeks, I didn’t tour the apartment when I returned home, afraid I would find something amiss.
I pretty much forgot about the odd card and the break-in (if you can call climbing in through a window I had thoughtlessly left open a break-in), chalking the late-night visit up to a kid looking for something quick to fence to buy drugs, a kid who got caught before he had a chance to take anything.
Stuff like that happened every night in the windy city, I supposed.
* * * *
The morning of the masquerade arrived with me still not sure how I would attire myself. If I knew Tabby, I was sure he would expect his guests to blow the roof off in the creativity department, but to also cause some serious wow-factor with daring and audacity. Yeah, the guy would want to see all of his guests half-naked at the start of the night and fully so before the sun came up next morn.
I’d been to enough of Tabby’s parties to know the drill.
My bed was covered with—as style maven Rachel Zoe might put it—options. None of them made much sense, but all would provide the requisite flesh-baring. First, there was leather. In my twenties, I had experimented quite heavily with the leather lifestyle, spending far more than I could afford on items like chaps, harnesses, armbands, caps, and vests. I could go as a leatherman, I supposed. It was terribly unoriginal, and I was sure it would earn me one of Tabby’s trademarked withering stares, but it would certainly be easy enough to don the chaps with a jock, leaving my ass bare. Up top, I could wear the studded harness or the bar vest, either of which would show off lots of skin to good advantage.
Another option would be the wrestling singlet I had held on to from my high school days. I am proud to say that I still fit into it, and it certainly displayed a lot of skin. The spandex fabric also ensured a formidable basket. Pair it with a pair of black high-tops, and I’d be good to go.
And would freeze my ass off. This was, after all, Chicago in October.
There was the white sheet that, with the addition of a couple of eyeholes would allow me to go as a ghost. I thought devilishly that I could wear absolutely nothing underneath. That could be fun.
I sighed. Weren’t gay men supposed to have some innate sense of creativity when it came to something like this? Where was mine hiding?
In the end, I decided on the leather ensemble. Maybe it wasn’t terribly creative, even if I claimed to be one of the Village People, but I looked hot in it. And I still held out for the possibility that tonight could be the night the universe smiled on me and gifted me with a Mr. Right.
Or at least, as they said, a Mr. Right Now.
* * * *
The party was in full swing when I arrived. Let me give you the lay of the land. Tabby’s apartment was in a vintage building, erected during a time when architects erred on the side of largesse. All of the rooms in the condo were huge, bordering on cavernous. The hardwood floors gleamed. The floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on a dark night sky. All the original woodwork in the place—mahogany and cherry, I guessed—had been immaculately maintained; they gleamed with a richness that spoke of decades of serious care and nourishment. The walls were covered with art—oils mostly—in heavily gilded frames. Most of the paintings depicted nude or half-dressed men lolling about in verdant settings. Each room in the condo was painted a different color, all in warm hues; orange morphed into yellow, yellow into red, red into ochre. What could have been an eyesore, a disaster of interior design, somehow seemed to work for Tabby. The colors flowed throughout the space, lending guests a feeling of excitement and security. Entering Tabby’s condo was like chancing upon another world, one where you wanted to stay, but just knew you were not worthy.
The room was abuzz with conversation. What appeared to me to be at least fifty men had crowded into the space, and it seemed like every one of them was talking at once. The musical score to their conversation was house music, identifiable only by its heavy bass beat.
There was a riot of color and elaborateness to the men’s attire—no one would have dared showed up without a costume. Tabby would not have been above banishing the offending guest—loudly and without mercy.
I quickly saw I was not the only one who had gone the leather route. At least three other men had traveled down the same path as I had, wearing the same outfit which would hae welcomed them into the back room of any leather bar in the city. So be it. The other costumes ranged from the fancifully elaborate—two men had hidden inside a very detailed and gorgeous white-furred unicorn—to the simply sleazy. Several men had worn next to nothing. Personally, I didn’t think a faded old jock strap, a backward baseball cap, and a pair of steel-toed boots composed much of a costume, but apparently I had my detractors. That guy, with his hirsute, muscular form, had a horde of men gathered around him. One man had wrapped himself entirely in Saran Wrap and worn nothing beneath it. I heard him announce that he had come as “leftovers” and people laughed. There was someone done up as, I suppose, the Marquis de Sade, in a frilly white shirt, tight black pants, high leather boots, and a voluminous black cape. He sported a black half mask and a cat-o-nine tails as a prop. There was someone dressed as Goofy, in the old Disney cartoons, but I never realized Goofy had such a big schlong. This guy’s hung half the length down one of his black-trousered pants. Another pair had come as Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, all stripes and Alice in Wonderland. Along the same lines, I saw a Cheshire cat and a Mad Hatter (did they all go see Tim Burton’s 3D version of the story last year? I wondered). Each of those men had done their faces up to look the part, but had added an erotic elemen
t lower down, wearing latex or rubber. There was another guy clad only in a pair of ankle chains. He looked like an accountant, right down to his tortoiseshell-framed glasses, even if he was naked. Yet another wore a Spandex Batman suit and looked hotter than hell. He could save me from crime anytime. And, of course, I saw an array of cowboys, construction workers, football players, and guys who looked like they had just stepped off a Deadliest Catch boat but were, most likely, in the advertising or information technology business.
There was one guy, though, who gave me the creeps. He stood near the windows, all alone. It wasn’t so much his separateness from everyone else that was chilling, although that did have its macabre aspect. This was a party, for cryin’ out loud! No, it was his costume that made me pause and caused a frisson of fear to course through me. The guy was dressed all in black. Deep, deep black with no sheen that almost looked as if was crafted from the darkness pressing against Tabby’s windows. He didn’t have a drink in his hand. Instead, he held both arms rigidly at his sides. His hands were sheathed in a criminal’s black leather gloves.
But the most alarming thing about him was his mask. It almost looked like one of those Jason, Friday the 13th affairs—you know, a hockey mask. But this one was more elaborate, almost elegant. It appeared to have been crafted from porcelain and it nearly glowed in its paleness and pure, pure white. There were only three openings in its smooth, emotionless surface: two round holes for the eyes, a slim straight line for the mouth, and two tiny nose holes.
It was the kind of face you would not want to see looming over you should you awaken suddenly in the middle of the night. If that face was looking down at you, you’d most likely be grateful to return to whatever dream you had just exited, even if it was the fiercest nightmare.
No one had come in drag—a no-no because Tabby had a strict “no compete” clause for this party.
And there was Tabby himself, headed right toward me. Out of his costume, Tabby is a very regular-looking chubby white guy. He has curly brown hair, a sweet face surrounded by one too many chins, tiny eyes, and full lips. He probably stood about six four and his was a massive form. I would guess, being realistic and not unkind, that he tipped the scales at about four hundred pounds.
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