The Man From Milwaukee

by Rick R. Reed

  “Maybe something cold?” Emory turned and went into the kitchen. Tyler followed. He took note of the copper molds placed decoratively on the soffit above the sink, the white-painted table and chairs, the calendar from the year before on the wall. The cabinets were white metal, vintage fifties stuff.

  Emory was bent at the waist and peering into the refrigerator. “Only we don’t have much. No pop or iced tea.” He kicked the refrigerator door shut. “Glass of water?”

  “I’m fine, Emory, really. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you. I guess I wanted to see for myself if you were okay.”

  Emory looked down at the flowers still in one hand and the newspaper still tucked under one arm. It had been a feat to even open the fridge and glance inside. He set the newspaper on the kitchen table, upon which a Tater Tot casserole sat, half-eaten, with a fly buzzing around it. He put the flowers Tyler had brought on the kitchen counter, thinking he’d find a vase for them right away.

  “Well, it was good of you to come. Especially when it’s so far out of your way.”

  “It’s not. Just a quick on and off from the L. That’s all.” Tyler shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He thought he should go. He thought he should stay. Emory seemed to be here all by himself.

  Tyler leaned up against the wall. “Um, have you been able to make all the arrangements?”

  Emory nodded. “Mary Helen helped out with the details a surprising lot. She’s my sister.”

  “Is she here now?” Tyler was having trouble imagining what Emory’s sister might look like. A female version of Emory?

  “No. She’s moving out.” Emory paled as he spoke the words. “She, uh, she’s moving in with, um, a friend.”

  Tyler cocked his head. “Okay. So you have the place all to yourself now?”

  Emory looked panicked. He swallowed hard. “I guess. Not sure I’ll be able to afford the apartment without Mother’s social security. May need to find a little studio. Maybe Rogers Park?”

  Tyler tried to put a positive spin on things. “Well, that could be a fresh start.” He smiled. “I could help you move, if it comes to that.”

  Emory waved him away. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen, really. I have to look at my budget. This place, obviously, is pretty cheap, anyway. The landlord hasn’t updated since we moved in twelve years ago.”

  “That long? You must have been children.”

  Emory moved to the window and turned his back to Tyler as he stared out. “It was a long time ago.”

  The nostalgia in his voice suddenly made Tyler want to weep. Here was a man, he thought, who suddenly found himself all alone in the world. And, even if his mother was sick and dying and his sister an enigma, at least he had some family.

  “Where did your sister go? Mary Helen?”

  “She’s gonna be living over in Andersonville?” Emory said, mentioning the old Swedish neighborhood clustered around Clark and Foster. He looked at Tyler for a long while, as though debating whether to share. “She’s a lesbo. I had no idea until she told me she was moving in with her girlfriend, now that Mother had passed. She said there was nothing to tie her to this place anymore.” Emory looked down at the floor, then back up at Tyler. The admission seemed to revolt him. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound bitter or judgmental. I know you’re gay too. It’s just that it came as something of a shock. She was never around these days, but I figured she was just a whore.” A short bark of laughter, bitter, escaped him, like even saying the word whore was scandalous.

  Tyler said, “Well, even lesbians can be whores.” Why did you say that? At a time like this? What’s wrong with you?

  But Emory laughed—way too hard for what the situation warranted. He laughed until the tears came, until he was holding his belly, breathless. When he had control of himself again, he said, “I suppose you’re right.”

  They fell silent then. And Tyler began to think there was no more to say. He reminded himself once again that he barely knew this guy. And yet, he felt for him. Emory’s loneliness radiated off him like a wave.

  “Have they had the services yet?”

  “What services? You mean like viewing hours and all that? A minister at the gravesite, reading from Psalms? Making her lie down in green pastures or something like that?”

  Tyler had no response. Had he asked the wrong thing?

  “We didn’t do any of that. For one, Mother didn’t want it. So, Mary Helen and I scraped enough together for a pine box and a quick cremation.” Emory’s face took on a curious blank aspect that made Tyler want to take him in his arms, to let him know that it was okay to cry, to lean into his grief, but he stayed rooted to the wall he leaned against, almost as though physically restrained.

  “We’ll get a box with her ‘cremains,’ that’s what the funeral guy called them, ‘cremains.’” Emory chuckled. “They’ll give us a call. We can pick Mother up then.” He waved toward the living room. “I can bring her home, put her on the mantel. She’ll keep me company.” He laughed, but the mirth didn’t reach his eyes. “At least now, she’ll be quiet. For a change…”

  Tyler was a little breathless, oppressed by the heat. Or maybe it was the whole bizarre situation causing him to feel as though he couldn’t suck in enough air? He suddenly felt a need to get out, now, but it was tempered by the nurturing side of him, the side that had come here wanting to help a friend in a time of need.

  “You had your dinner yet? Can I take you out for some food? I saw a diner on the way over here.”

  “That’s nice of you. Maybe another time. You should be getting home.”

  “Okay,” Tyler said uncertainly.

  “Okay.”

  It was as though Emory was waiting. And maybe he was.

  Tyler hurried through the apartment and paused at the front door. Emory arrived on silent feet, just after. Tyler asked, “When do you think you’ll come back to work?”

  “Tomorrow,” Emory replied, as though the answer were obvious. “We only get two days off for bereavement. I’ve used ’em. I need the money.” He opened the door for Tyler. “I’ll see you there, then.”

  Tyler smiled and debated once more whether he should give Emory a hug. In the end, he hurried out the door, and even though the hallway was worn down and dated, it felt like sweet freedom to simply be out of the crowded little apartment.

  He was about to turn back to Emory to tell him if there was anything he needed, Tyler would be happy to help.

  But Emory had already closed the door.

  The Bartender

  He waited around the bar all night for me to close up.

  He’d had his eye on me from the first time I served him. He started out a shy boy, all innocent glances from beneath slightly lowered lashes.

  But, as he drank more and more—and I’m not one to discourage this, especially when they’re tipping well—he loosened up. The flirting became more outrageous, winking and even, one time, licking his lips as he stared pointedly at my crotch.

  I threw him a couple free drinks only because he seemed lonely. The fact that he was fixated on me helped too.

  And then, when closing time rolled around and I shouted out my standard cliché, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” he didn’t move. The lights came on. The music on the juke box, Crystal Waters “Gypsy Woman” ended.

  I wiped off the bar a final time and reached below it to get my backpack.

  “We’re closing, friend. Didn’t you hear me announce last call?”

  “That song? The one that was just playing? So dumb to sing about the homeless like that. It trivializes them.”

  I nodded. “You got a point there.”

  I hoisted the backpack over one arm and then moved out from behind the bar. I looked at him and smiled. “Got to lock up, set the alarm. The owner doesn’t allow customers in here while I do that.”

  His face reddened. “Sorry.” He hopped down from his stool. “I got all caught up in just watching you.”

  I
paused. “You’re sweet.” I touched his cheek and gave him a little peck on the lips. He stepped back, stunned, but he was thrilled. You know, sometimes my tips aren’t in crumpled ones and change.

  I motioned with my head toward the door. “Dude. You gotta go.”

  He nodded. “Okay.” He stood by the door for a time, watching me.

  The slightest tinge of annoyance prompted me to point toward the door. “Now,” I said, smiling to soften the blow.

  “Yeah, sure.” He opened the door and outside—freedom.

  The night’s mine now. Granville Avenue is flooded with an orangeish light from the streetlamps. An L train passes overhead, and I swear I feel the vibrations through the soles of my combat boots. There’s a couple of guys arguing outside. One’s shouting about the other’s “wandering eye” and says he’ll never be able to trust him again. I shake my head. How many times will I overhear variations on this same fight?

  The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  The train makes me wonder what I should do next. I could head south, grab a nightcap, a boy for the night…

  The door slams shut. I’m alone. I go back behind the bar and grab a glass, pour myself two fingers of Jack Daniels, and down it.

  Fortified, I open the door and emerge into the night.

  I’m heading toward where I’d left my car parked on Winthrop when a voice calls from the alley running behind the bar. “Hey. Where you headed?”

  I stop and backtrack a few steps.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The alley’s filled with shadows. But I recognize him, barely separate from the dark, leaning against a dumpster. He’s got his pants undone and his hand’s inside, working. I consider moving on, but what the hell? I can fool around with this guy, get my nut, head home, and get a good night’s sleep for once. I’ll save myself a few bucks on drinks too. Save even more if I’d end up going to the baths, which is what I’d probably do if I strike out at a bar.

  I pause, looking to my left and my right. No one’s around. It won’t be the first time I’ve hooked up in an alley, and the street’s quiet for now. I think of this one time when I got a blowjob from a cop while a rat watched from beside the dumpster.

  I move into the darkness, smiling, my hand whispering across the faded denim of my crotch, already anticipating the buttons being undone.

  He gets on his knees as I draw closer.

  Chapter Six

  Emory locked the door and threw himself down on the couch. It creaked under his weight. He surveyed the room through Tyler’s eyes, and it came up badly wanting. It was a hellhole, a pigsty, not fit for human habitation.

  When had it gotten so filthy?

  He’d have liked to have blamed Mother and her illness, but that wasn’t true. Not anymore. Once she got sick, everything went to hell in a handbasket—that much was true, but she could hardly be blamed. Once upon a time, Mother would have both he and Mary Helen cleaning on Saturday mornings—dusting, vacuuming, polishing, washing windows—until the place shone. Back then, there was a real pride of ownership, even if they were only renters.

  But once she was no longer able to supervise and was confined to her bedroom, Emory and Mary Helen let things slide. And there was no excuse! The dust accumulated. Bed linens seldom got washed. The floor felt gritty if you walked barefoot across the creaking hardwood. The cockroaches seemed to be multiplying—and becoming bolder.

  It had been kind of Tyler to take the time to stop by, to actually bring him flowers. Other than the old lady who lived down the hall, Mrs. Schermerhorn, who’d come over with a casserole yesterday, no one else had visited. Mary Helen and her girlfriend, a flannel-shirt-wearing stereotype with a crew cut, named Liz, had stopped after the cremation to gather up Mary Helen’s things, and as they put it, to “get the hell out of Dodge.” They were packed up and gone within an hour.

  Even though their relationship had been strained, veering on nonexistent, for the past few years, she was still his sister. He still loved her. He didn’t know if he’d ever see her again.

  And if he did, he wasn’t sure he had it in him to forgive her for abandoning him, right when he needed her most. You’d think the death of the mother you had in common would draw siblings closer and not divide them further. But Mary Helen had been contrary for years. Sometimes, he believed she hated him.

  He remembered when they were children. He was eight years older than Mary Helen and always looked out for her, almost like a surrogate father. He’d make up stories and games for her and dress her up in one of Mother’s slips for dance parties in the living room when Lawrence Welk was on. They’d hunker down together in front of the TV and share a box of powdered sugar doughnuts while watching sitcoms on TV.

  They were close. No one could deny it. And, even though Mary Helen was far younger than he was, she eased his loneliness. He was a tortured, bullied kid at school, the butt of every joke, beaten up regularly.

  He had no friends.

  He still didn’t.

  But when he had Mary Helen, when they were a pair, the pain of being an outcast would subside just a little bit.

  Maybe that was about to change. There was Tyler, who seemed to take an interest in him, to genuinely care about his welfare. His sympathy and support felt weird. Emory didn’t know if he deserved the attention or not.

  There was Dahmer, in his prison cell. His famous buddy.

  Thoughts of Dahmer reminded him he had yet to check the mail that day. He tapped his pocket, making sure he had his keys, and headed downstairs to the lobby.

  The doorman, or what passed for one in this building, looked up from the Newsweek he was reading as Emory passed him.

  “Hey Emory. Sorry to hear about your mom. You need anything?”

  “Thanks, Pete. I’m good.” Emory eyed the dark-bearded man, wanting to look into his dark-brown eyes, but didn’t dare.

  “She was a good woman, your mother. A real lady. You don’t find many of those anymore.”

  Emory nodded. He wished Pete would shut up. Emory was afraid if Pete continued, he’d start crying, and he wasn’t about to do that in front of the doorman.

  Barely looking at Pete, he gave him a small smile. “Nice of you to say so. Mother would have appreciated the kind words.”

  Pete nodded and went back to his magazine.

  In the mailbox, Emory found the Commonwealth Edison bill, the phone bill, a two-for-one pizza deal from Giordano’s, and a letter from a prison in Wisconsin. This last made Emory smile, genuinely, for the first time in days.

  Pete grinned as he passed through on his way to the stairs at the back of the lobby. “Good news?”

  Emory stopped smiling abruptly and hurriedly slid the prison-sent missive under the Giordano’s flyer. “Free pizza. I think I’ll order one tonight. Mother never allowed us to have pizza.” He laughed. Pete cocked his head and didn’t join in.

  Emory raced up the stairs and back to his apartment.

  He dropped everything but the letter on the coffee table. He took it into his bedroom.

  After tearing open the envelope, he lay down across the bed and began reading.

  Dear Emory,

  Thanks for writing back so quick.

  Your letters keep me sane. Alive.

  Sorry about your mom. Were you close to her? The less said about my mom, the better.

  I know it’s hard, but you need to get out, so you can get over your grief. Chicago has a lot of distractions (I remember). Maybe find some…

  Jeff

  Emory had hoped for more. He felt as though he could see into Dahmer’s very soul and expected the same depth of feeling back. He’d written Dahmer a four-page letter when he’d found Mother’s body, telling him how alone he was in the world now, and how she didn’t deserve this virus she’d ended up with. He’d confessed his confusion and his fear for his future.

  He let Dahmer’s reply slip from his fingers to the sheet beneath him.

  Outside, the sky was painted in the co
lors of twilight—pale gray, lilac, navy blue—and yet encroaching night brought no relief from the humidity and the heat. Emory wriggled out of his clothes, flinging them on the floor, and then got up, naked, to move the box fan from the window. He placed it on one of the dining table chairs he had in his bedroom and positioned it at the foot of his bed.

  If he was going to be even a little productive at the office tomorrow, he needed sleep. His eyes burned and his body ached for it, yet he wasn’t sure he’d succeed. Still, he lay on the damp sheets, trying to ignore the grit from his dirty feet at the bottom of the bed.

  He lay, trying not to think, for what seemed like hours. Sweat dribbled down his smooth chest. Even with the fan blowing hot air on him, it still felt suffocating, as though the walls were closing in, the ceiling dropping. And, as he might have predicted, the harder he tried to go to sleep, the more awake he felt, despite the weariness in his bones.

  At one point, groggy, he could have sworn he saw Mother standing in the shadows in the corner of the room.

  He tossed. He turned. And at last, he sat up, thought about what Dahmer had said—about getting out.

  There’s no one around anymore to care about where I go… When I leave and when I come back.

  Emory rummaged through his closet and brought out a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. He slid into them and found the off-brand sneakers he’d bought earlier that summer from the Payless over on Broadway when he’d had the idea he’d begin running along the lakefront.

  It was as though he’d had his destination in mind before he even realized it. There was a siren call, maybe or maybe not inspired by Dahmer, and he could hear it loud and clear because it was only down the street and around the corner.

  He set off.

  Emory knew if he hesitated for more than a minute or two outside the Forge, the gay bar on Granville, he’d never go inside. He’d passed the place many times, even glimpsed into its dark and smoky interior when his passing by and the door opening coincided. The smell of beer and smoke would waft out, borne up on men’s voices and disco on the jukebox.