by Dorien Grey
I was once more aware of what an odd mixture Toby was. On the one hand, he was Mr. Calm-and-Composed. On the other, he reminded me of a little boy who’d never lost his sense of the wonder at discovering new things.
“I’m glad,” I said. “I know you’ll like the symphony. Why don’t I pick you up at your place? There’s no point in our taking two cars.”
There was a slight pause, and then a rather hesitant “Oh…uh…okay. That’d be fine, if you’re sure it won’t be a bother. I live at two-forty-seven Cloverland—do you think you can find it again?”
I remembered. It was in what used to be known as a working-class neighborhood, now in slow but irreversible decline. Tenements, flats, a few single-family houses holding on without much hope for gentrification or renewal.
“Yeah, I can find it easy enough,” I said. Then I had a spur of the moment thought my mind told me wasn’t quite as spur of the moment as I imagined. “Tell you what. I know you don’t like restaurants, but Warman Park’s just a block away from the Civic Arts. What do you say we have a sort of picnic dinner before the performance? You can bring whatever you like, and I’ll bring something for me, and a bottle of vintage cranberry juice for both of us. We can relax and have a chance to talk a little.”
Again a slight pause. Then: “Sure. Why not? It’ll be fun. I like picnics.”
“Great! I’ll pick you up about…six-fifteen? That should give us plenty of time.”
“Okay, that sounds good. I’ll see you at six-fifteen Saturday, then.”
*
I spent most of the remainder of the week contacting everyone I could find who had been in either Venture or Ramón’s on the nights of the incidents. When I ran out of them, I’d start on the Hilltop and Faces. I decided to concentrate on the smaller bars. Glitter would be next to impossible, given its size and the number of guys there at any one time, but I asked everyone I called if they might have been at Glitter the night Richie Smith threw his fit, just in case. I ran into four on the Ramón’s list who had been at Venture the night Barnseth did his number, and two who had been at Glitter and Venture on the right nights, and one who’d been at Venture and the Hilltop. Nobody could tell me a thing I didn’t already know.
By Saturday, I was ready for a break. I had a stenographer’s notebook filled with names, and names the names had given me, and little arrows and scrawls and circles from one to the other, and…
I went to the store for the week’s groceries and picked up stuff for a couple sandwiches plus a large bottle of cranberry juice and some fruit. By five o’clock, I was all ready to go and had everything in the cooler I’d dug out of the storeroom after having all but forgotten about it. I tried to time it so I wouldn’t be too early but found myself turning down the 200 block of Cloverland at about 6:05.
To my surprise, Toby was standing on the sidewalk by the curb, like a kid waiting for the school bus. He had a sport jacket over one arm, and a brown paper bag in the other hand. Whatever he had in the bag could not been one-tenth as delicious as he looked. God, he was beautiful!
I pulled up to the curb, and he got in.
“I would have come in for you,” I said.
He smiled and turned to put his paper bag and sport jacket in the back seat next to the cooler.
“I know,” he said, “but parking can be a problem, and I didn’t want to put you to any extra trouble.” He was wearing a white shirt open at the collar, showing off his tan to full advantage, and his little silver chain only added to the overall effect. “I wasn’t quite sure what to wear to a symphony. I’ve got a tie in my jacket if I need it.”
“You look fine just the way you are,” I said, and meant it.
*
We parked in the public garage under the west side of Warman Park and took our bag and cooler up to the surface, emerging about 300 feet from the central fountain. There were quite a few people who’d obviously had the same idea, but it wasn’t crowded by a long shot, and we easily found a picnic table.
Toby, it seemed, took most of his meals in liquid form. He had two small thermoses of I-couldn’t-guess what, a small plastic bag of some sort of cracker, a banana, a peach, and an apple. Oh, and a small bottle of assorted pills and capsules he washed down with the contents of one of the thermoses.
I’d made two bologna/summer sausage/American cheese sandwiches (lots of mayo and mustard) and had brought a couple apples, oranges, and the bottle of cranberry juice, which had barely fit in the cooler. Luckily, I did not forget the paper cups.
It was a beautiful afternoon with relatively little traffic on the surrounding streets. We were close enough to the fountain to be able to appreciate the soothing sounds of falling water. The sky was a crisp, sharp, no-nonsense blue with only an occasional cumulus cloud drifting lazily overhead, trolling its shadow lightly across the ground.
“You know, Toby,” I said when I felt the time was right, “it occurred to me the other day we’ve seen each quite a few times now, and I don’t even know your last name.”
He gave me one of those Toby smiles.
“Brown,” he said. “Toby Brown. Did you know Brown is the most common last name in America?”
No, I didn’t, and I shook my head. When he didn’t volunteer any more information I pushed ahead, hoping I didn’t come across as actually pushing.
“And I don’t know very much about you. Where you’re from, your family, stuff like that.”
He smiled again.
“Does it matter?” he asked, calmly.
I felt my face flushing slightly and hoped it was all on the inside.
“No,” I stammered, “not really. I didn’t mean to pry.”
Still smiling, he reached across the table and took my hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just try not to think about my past very much, if I can avoid it. I’m a farm boy, as I think I told you once. My family was about as poor as you can get and still make do. My dad and mom worked like dogs trying to make a living off the farm, but they never quite did. And then when they…” He paused for only a heartbeat, but it could have been a full minute. “…died, I picked up and left. They were the only thing that held me there.”
I sensed again that the topic of his family was a painful one for him, so I thought it best to change the subject.
“So, how do you like city life, now that you’ve been here awhile?”
“I’m not sure I like it,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking of leaving. I’ve got some business back home I’ve got to take care of, and then…I don’t know.”
I was both surprised and sorry to hear him say he was thinking of moving—I’d just gotten to know him and automatically assumed he’d become a part of my life.
Before I could say anything, he continued talking.
“But I’m glad I moved here. I’ve learned a lot about people, and about being gay. And if I hadn’t moved here, I wouldn’t be here now, going to the Chicago Symphony with a very nice man I want very much to be my friend.”
I don’t know why, but I was oddly…well, okay—moved. Being a diehard romantic does that to me, I guess.
“Thanks, Toby,” I said. “And I am your friend.” Then, although I tried not to, I found myself asking, “Why hasn’t someone grabbed you up a long time ago?”
His smile changed, subtly but surely.
“Because I’m not ready to be grabbed up,” he said. Immediately, he stopped smiling, and his grip on my hand tightened. “Oh, Dick, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring grin.
“Hey, no,” I said. “I was asking as a friend.” Uh-huh, my mind whispered.
I could see him relax and the smile came back.
“I’m glad,” he said. “I know if I was looking for someone to be more than a friend right now, I’d be standing on your doorstep in a heartbeat. But I’ve got to take the time to be me before I’m ready to become anyone’s us. I don’t have any real friends…” Again there was tha
t flicker of a pause that could have been an eternity “…anymore. And I can’t tell you how much I enjoy spending time with you.”
“Ditto,” I said, feeling that all that needed to be said on that subject had been. I decided a subject change might be in order. “Jared mentioned he saw you at Ramón’s the other night. Did you catch the action? I understand it was quite a production.”
His face lost the smile completely.
“Yes,” he said. “I was there. Your friend Jared’s the big one, right? I’ve never officially met him, but he was very nice to do what he did. That guy he threw out of the bar was despicable. How can gays treat each other like that? Don’t we get enough of that from straights?”
“No argument there,” I said. “Did you know the guy who caused the trouble was killed later that night? A hit-and-run.”
“Really?” His tone implied complete disinterest. “I guess some people do get what they deserve.”
I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was nearly 7:25.
“Wow,” I said, “we’d better get going—we have to run this stuff back to the car.”
We picked up all our garbage, and Toby took it over to a nearby trash receptacle while I put his thermoses back into his paper bag and closed the lid on my cooler. We vectored in on the parking garage entrance, found the car and locked everything in the trunk, then headed for the Civic Arts Center.
*
The symphony was wonderful, and Toby was totally enthralled. I could almost feel him absorbing every note of music as though he were a very large sponge. When the concert ended with the 1812 Overture, it looked as though he were close to tears. (Yeah—like I wasn’t).
As we rose from our seats and made our way down our row to the aisle, shoulders touching, arms at our sides, Toby moved his hand slightly forward to grab mine.
“Thank you, Dick,” he said. “That was probably one of the most wonderful experiences I’ve ever had in my whole life.” It made me oddly sad to realize he truly meant it. Ah, Toby.
We didn’t talk much on the way back to the car; Toby was still on cloud nine. He’d picked up three programs from seats we passed on our way out, in addition to his own, apparently so he’d have spares in case he wore his out from looking at it.
You’re a good kid, Toby Brown, I thought.
As we pulled out of the parking garage and onto the street, Toby broke his silence.
“Would you like to stop somewhere for a drink, Dick? I really don’t want the night to end just yet.”
“Sure,” I said. “Anyplace special?”
“There’s a place not too far from here—The Stardust, I think it’s called. I always thought it was kind of a froo-froo name for a gay bar, but we can try it, if you’d like.”
“Sure.”
I’d been there a couple of times, and he was right about the froo-froo; it catered to the sort of piss-elegant clientele Chris always referred to as the “ribbon clerk crowd.” I don’t think I’d care to go in there if I were out by myself cruising, but with Toby with me I didn’t mind.
We found a parking place not too far away and walked in to find the place only about half-full. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing to check us out, and I heard someone at the end of the bar say “Oh, Mary!” when Toby, who’d been behind me, stepped around to my side.
We took two stools fairly close to the door and ordered a cranberry juice, rocks, and a Whiskey Old Fashioned, sweet. A few minutes later, the door opened, and a good-looking guy built like a truck driver strode in, looking pretty much out of place. He wore something like a silk referee’s shirt, with wide white and black stripes, and tight black pants that displayed a noticeable bulge.
He started past us then suddenly stopped.
“Hey, Toby! How’s it hangin’?”
“Fine, Stan. How’s it with you?”
“Not bad. Not bad.” He struck a West Side Story Jets pose and adjusted his crotch. On a closer look, I judged the bulge was probably two pairs of rolled-up socks.
He stood there until Toby said, “Oh, yeah. Dick, this is Stan. Stan, Dick.”
We shook hands, and he looked me over carefully from head to foot, his jaw moving slowly back and forth as he chewed his gum, like he was inspecting a motorcycle someone was trying to sell. Toby just watched him impassively, until Stan said, “Well, I just come in to see if my boy Stevie’s here. If he ain’t, I’m heading out to Thorson’s Woods to pick up a little action.”
Still, he didn’t move until Toby said, “See you later, Stan.”
Stan took the hint—“Yeah, see ya later”—and moved about five stools down the bar.
“Not one of your favorite people, I gather,” I said.
Toby shrugged. “We work together. I try to avoid him whenever I can, but he’s always hitting on me. That’s bad enough, but somebody told me he has a lover. He shouldn’t do that.”
I shrugged. “Maybe they have an open relationship.”
He looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Well, it happens,” I said.
“Not with me, it doesn’t.”
The door opened again, and a young guy came in, noticed Stan and turned to go. Too late.
“Hey, there you are, sweetcakes!” Stan called. “Come on over here.”
The young man—Stevie?—straightened up, turned and walked reluctantly over to Stan.
“I told you I didn’t want to see you anymore,” he said quietly.
“Why, fer chrissakes?” Stan asked, grasping Stevie’s sleeve with one hand while pulling out the barstool next to him with the other. Stevie plunked himself down.
“Because you’ve got a lover,” he said. “And you used me to rub his nose in the fact you don’t give a shit for him. And for you to take me home and not even tell me he was there! That was mean, Stan, really mean.”
Stan leaned closer.
“That fat old fart’s not my lover, baby. I told you that. I just let him think he is. He’s a fat, ugly old queen. If he’s stupid enough to think anybody might actually be able to love him, that’s his problem. I let him blow me a couple times a month, if I feel like it, and he thinks that’s love. But he pays. He’s almost out of money now, and when it’s gone, I’m gone.”
He laughed. Stevie did not join in. I looked at Toby, who was staring into his cranberry juice, completely expressionless. I wanted to suggest that we leave, but didn’t.
“You’re sick, you know that?” Stevie said.
Stan leaned closer, although he didn’t lower his volume. Others in the bar were beginning to notice, and I unconsciously began to watch them. I’d never done that before, and wondered why the hell I hadn’t.
There were two I definitely recognized, another one I was pretty sure I’d seen in Venture, although I couldn’t remember when. A couple others looked familiar. The rest I didn’t recognize, but that didn’t mean anything.
And there was one small man I couldn’t see clearly, standing against the wall in the shadows.
“Sick, huh?” Stan was saying. “Well, I’m healthy enough to give you a two-hour pony ride whenever you want it, right, Stevie? You sure like that pony, don’t you, baby? It’s all yours.”
Stevie stood.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, but Stan grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back down. He got up again, and Stan reached for him again.
I looked around for the bartender, but he’d apparently gone to the storeroom for something. Everyone else seemed to be studiously pretending they weren’t watching and listening to every word.
That’s when I got off of my own stool and walked over to stand between Stan and Stevie.
“He said he’s got to go,” I said. “So, let him go.”
Stan looked up at me in surprise, and his jaw stopped moving in mid-chew. He let go of the younger man’s arm, to Stevie’s obvious relief. Stevie shot me a grateful glance then turned and left without looking back.
Stan seemed unconcerned, his jaws moving again and his gaze traveling up and
down my body.
“You’re a tough one, aren’t you?” he asked, not belligerently.
I just turned and started back to my stool.
“You want t’ dump pretty boy, there, I can show you what a real man can do for you…or maybe a three-way?”
I ignored him and sat back down, turning my attention to Toby, who was still staring into his cranberry juice.
“I’m sorry, Toby.”
He turned to me with a soft smile that reminded me of the smile John Peterson had given me—that painting of a saint I’d seen somewhere—and said, “I wasn’t paying attention. I was listening to music in my head.”
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Maybe we should go.”
“We don’t have to. Not yet. I’m not going to have somebody like that spoil a great night.” He smiled. “And it has been great.”
I let myself relax a bit.
“Yeah, it has.”
I tried to keep one eye on the door to see who came in or left—especially who left. A few minutes later, I felt Stan standing behind us. Toby and I both turned slightly to face him.
“You two take it easy,” he said. “I’m off to the woods for a little huntin’—lot of wild ass out there just waitin’ for a blast from Stan’s big gun.” He groped himself, laughed and walked out.
I kept my eye on the door, but no one followed him, and I was relieved until I looked around the bar again. The little man against the wall was gone. The back door to the bar was just swinging shut. Shit!
I wanted to get up and follow him, but I couldn’t. Toby didn’t know anything about what was going on, and I couldn’t spring it on him now.
“You know,” he said, apparently unaware of my distraction, “when I was a kid, I used to go hunting with my dad. Not for fun, but because we really needed the meat for food. I hated it! Every single time I had to shoot some poor animal, it tore me apart. But like I said, it wasn’t a matter of choice. We did what we had to do. I did it, but I never liked it.”
I thought again of what a rough life Toby must have had as a kid. I wished I had known him then.
Noticing I’d finished my Old Fashioned, he drained his cranberry juice and said, “Maybe we should go…it’s getting late.”