The Man From Milwaukee

by Rick R. Reed

  Of course, he has someone else. What did you expect? Him to stay alone, pining for you? Don’t make me piss myself laughing. The voice in Emory’s head was Mary Helen’s.

  He watched as Emory and the big guy, a bear as they called them, leaned against the bar and turned their attention to the screen, their gazes cast upward. The bear had a bottle of Budweiser clenched in his meaty paw, and it seemed like he couldn’t get it down fast enough. His other arm was thrown casually, maybe even possessively, over Tyler’s shoulder. Tyler didn’t mind, in fact, he leaned into the man.

  A nest of hornets, unleashed, buzzing, in his brain. The hot acid of bile splashing against the back of his throat made him grimace. Is this jealousy? Is this what it feels like? I thought it was much more benign. He turned away from the view, but all that he could look at were taunting, laughing faces that reminded him of the movie Carrie. He could hear Piper Laurie, as Carrie’s mother, in his head, warning, “They’re all gonna laugh at you.”

  Emory worried that if he had telekinetic abilities right now, this whole damn bar could go up in a glorious cloud of flame, shooting up toward the ink-stained heavens. Laugh at me indeed!

  The crowd closing in was a crushing weight. His breathing came more rapidly, and he panicked, wondering if it would continue coming at all. He rushed from the bar.

  Outside, the cold night air was a shock, but one he appreciated. Even though the air was perfumed with car exhaust and an undercurrent of Lake Michigan’s water beneath the fumes, it was pure heaven to draw it deep into his lungs. The kaleidoscope of streetlights and car headlights merged, and Emory felt drunk as he wandered north on Halsted, even though not a single drop of alcohol had passed his lips. The crowds on the sidewalk, mostly gay men, some costumed in leather, a couple flamboyant ones in drag, and the rest just average Joes pressed up against him, almost as they had in the bar.

  He wanted to get away, to get home, to his sanctuary and his shelter.

  The claustrophobia rose, making his blood boil, causing his heart to constrict, reducing his breathing to the pants of a dog on a hot and humid August afternoon.

  Emory leaned against a brick wall outside a bar at the corner of Cornelia and Halsted called Little Jim’s. He closed his eyes, wondering why he hadn’t just stayed home, especially when he knew how busy Halsted would be on a Saturday night. Behind his closed eyelids, he saw first shooting colors—blue, purple, aqua. And then a ghostly image of his mother, her hands outstretched.

  I don’t belong here. I never did.

  After he got his heart rate and respiration back to somewhat normal levels, he hurried into Little Jim’s, thinking maybe a coke or even a beer might calm his nerves before he headed back home on the L.

  But he paused in the doorway, because it was just as crowded in this bar as it had been in Sidetrack, although the crowd here was one-hundred percent male. Don’t gay men do anything besides drink and cruise each other? The smoke, too, made him cough. There was a blue-gray cloud of the stuff hovering near the ceiling.

  When he glanced up at one of the TV monitors hanging over the bar, he winced, because it was showing hardcore pornography. A young blond was in a sling, being gang fucked by a group of men…and not one of them wore a condom. The vision actually made him tremble, made him feel like, once again, he was about to be sick.

  He turned and fled, running all the way to the Addison L stop.

  Dorothy had it right. There’s no place like home.

  All the way back north, all Emory could do was stare down at the floor where someone had spit out the hulls of sunflower seeds.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Is everything okay?” Cole tried to catch Tyler’s gaze. It seemed, over the course of the last fifteen minutes or so, all the spark had gone out of his friend. When Cole had picked him up earlier at his new studio apartment near Lincoln Square in the Ravenswood neighborhood, Tyler was bouncing off the walls so much that Cole wondered, “What are you on?” He’d seen enough of his friends indulge, especially the gay ones, in what they all merrily called nose candy through the eighties and into the nineties. And he’d seen the more hardcore ones end up in rehab, their lives lost to dealers, and the worst of them, their lives lost, period.

  But Tyler had just said, “I’m excited to be going out, that’s all. High on life and all that happy horseshit.” Tyler grinned and it made Cole realize just how much he was falling for this guy, who wasn’t his type at all. But there was something about him—his exuberance, his utter lack of judgment, his kindness, and, of course, the tightest little butt this side of the Mississippi.

  He didn’t know if Tyler returned his feelings, but as the evening started out and they walked together through an alley running under the L tracks to the stop at Western Avenue, he’d begun to think maybe he stood a chance with Tyler even if he was ten years older and a good deal meatier than what he’d noticed Tyler seemed interested in when they were out.

  They’d met only a couple of weeks ago, at the gay bowling league at the Marigold Bowl. Tyler had been there to cheer on a team where he’d had several buddies. But he was not, he’d told Cole over beers and after the league bowling was over, a bowler. “Maybe if I made aiming for the gutter a priority, I might knock over a few pins.” He’d rolled his eyes. “Reverse logic, you know?”

  They’d been inseparable the past couple of weeks, and many of Cole’s friends thought they were a couple, but the truth was the most intimate thing they’d done so far was to share a pizza while watching a video Tyler had brought over of Carnival of Souls. Cole hadn’t confessed his hatred of the horror genre, because he wanted Tyler to like him. But at some point, he’d need to clear that up and confess that his love for movies fell within the opposite realm—romantic comedies and chick flicks. Despite being almost six-and-a-half feet tall and well over two hundred pounds, he was a softie at heart. A Hallmark commercial could make him blubber. He couldn’t help it if he looked and sounded like a long-haul truck driver, but at his core, was a delicate flower, prone to tears and hearts-and-flowers romance.

  And the delicate flower side of him picked up on Tyler’s change of mood almost immediately. It was right after he crossed the bar to talk to a frightened-looking fellow with a shaved head.

  Now, Cole leaned close to whisper in Tyler’s ear. “You seem, I dunno, kind of disoriented, like you lost your best friend.”

  Tyler looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you reading my mind? That guy I was talking to? His name is Emory and maybe he was my best friend, or something like it, but there were issues. I haven’t seen him in a long time, and seeing him now, kind of shocked me.”

  “Why?”

  “He looked, I don’t know, so severe. Kind of off.” Tyler thought for a moment, a finger to his lower lip. “I hurt for him.”

  Cole took a swig of his beer, but it suddenly had no taste. If Tyler hurt, then so did he. “Why would you hurt for him?”

  Tyler looked down at the floor and then back up at Cole. The laughter all around them suddenly seemed out of place, maybe even a little macabre. Tyler shrugged, but the light had vanished from his eyes.

  “Do you want to get out of here? Go someplace quieter?”

  That pulled a smile from Tyler’s worried face. “Are you propositioning me?”

  If Cole thought for a moment that Tyler’s answer would be yes to a proposition, he would have even jokingly said he was. But Tyler was obviously disturbed, and Cole wanted to be a support, not a lech, so he grinned and shrugged. “No. Just want to know you’re okay.”

  Tyler leaned into him and placed a hand on his chest. “You’re sweet. You’re one of the sweetest men I’ve met in a long time.”

  Cole responded with, “That’s what they all say.” And it was true; it was both Cole’s blessing and his curse that guys, for the most part, didn’t look at him with lust, but with the kind of emotion one might reserve for a beloved uncle, dad, or grandpa. He was sweet. He was kind. But sexy? It didn’t seem to cross many minds. And he real
ly wished it would cross Tyler’s.

  “Thank you. I think you are too.”

  Cole’s words didn’t seem to register on Tyler, which made him even sadder.

  And what Tyler said next ruined the whole evening for Cole.

  “I do want to get out of here, but would you mind if I took off on my own?”

  “Really? We were having such a good time.”

  “It’s not about that.” Tyler eyed him with sympathy. “Or you. I just need to see if my friend is okay.”

  Cole tried to comfort himself with the notion that this, right here, was ample demonstration that Tyler was a good, caring person.

  He should like that—and he did—he really did, despite his disappointment. He should save that disappointment, though, for another time.

  It wasn’t easy to do. “Sure. Go to your friend.”

  Tyler was already moving away. Cole reached out and grabbed the back of his jean jacket. “Call me in the morning, okay? Let me know how things go.”

  Tyler nodded and started to exit the bar once more. But he stopped himself, hurried back to Cole, and kissed him. It wasn’t a peck either. There was a little flicker of tongue before he pulled away.

  And that made Cole smile, even though he was looking at Tyler’s back as he weaved his way through the crowd and toward the exit. Cole wanted to do a happy dance but contented himself with ordering another beer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  During the day, the Edgewater neighborhood where Emory lived was okay—safe, normal. The sidewalks bustled. Shops, restaurants, and bars served crowds. There was something alive in the air. Tyler bet most of the people on the busy daytime streets never thought much about crime, about dark shadows lurking in alleyways or the rustle of rats in the dumpsters.

  Night changed everything.

  Now, at nearly midnight, the streets were silent, save for the swarm of traffic on Broadway that sounded to Tyler like a rushing river. And yes, there was the occasional rumble of the L just a block east of the busy thoroughfare. But neither of these things made Tyler feel any less alone. Neither of these mechanical sounds comforted him or gave him confidence. He still looked over his shoulder every few paces.

  He stopped outside Emory’s building. There was a streetlight just above the long front awning, and it was out, making the darkness here more palpable. Tyler shivered as he imagined a man in a black ski mask separating himself from the shadows and approaching him with a gun, a knife, or murderous outstretched hands.

  He looked up at the high-rise, hoping for a glimpse of stars above the rooftop. But noise pollution rendered any constellations or planets invisible. Even the moon hid behind a cloud bank, discernible only from a faint pewter light.

  Does he even live here anymore? How’s he paying the rent if he isn’t working? Is he awake? These were just a few of the questions running through his mind, making him hesitate, and causing him to question if following after Emory had been a foolish idea, given the late hour of the night.

  But it wasn’t really so much that the wee hours of the morning were beginning, it was the memory of the last time he’d seen Emory before tonight, whispering to himself in a corner filled with shadows. That scene, etched on his brain, seemed like something from one of the horror films he favored, although with a movie, he always had the comfort of this isn’t really happening. There are cameras, a boom microphone perhaps, a director and a crew pulling the strings of terror. It’s all make-believe. Keep telling yourself, “It’s only a movie. It’s only a movie.”

  The very real image of a madman was what had driven him away last winter.

  So why are you here now? The guy’s nuttier than a fruitcake, as Grandma used to say even though she’d never met Emory. What do you hope to get out of this little encounter if you do happen to talk to Emory?

  Tyler walked a bit north on Kenmore, glancing into dark underground parking garages, and asking himself again: Do I really want to do this? His life these days was good. Free of drama. The life of a carefree twentysomething. He had a decent job that challenged him—the work was dull, but editing soothed him in a way, ensuring that no mistakes slipped through was a badge of honor for him.

  He’d made new friends even as he lost touch with the old ones from high school and college.

  All part of growing up, he supposed.

  But he now had a core group of young gay men like himself, who enjoyed getting together and going out to the bars on Halsted and sometimes up in the Andersonville neighborhood, seeing movies on the weekends, just hanging out with a six-pack and a bong at each other’s places. Laughing. Teasing. Comparing notes on boys.

  There were hookups and one-night stands. No one guy ever amounted to much.

  He didn’t have anyone special although he knew Cole had a serious crush on him. But he wasn’t sure he wanted that, so he didn’t let it show that he knew, let alone return the interest. He was a sweet guy, but Tyler had yet to feel that indescribable spark for him.

  And he’d felt that spark, albeit in the tiniest way, for Emory, a few months ago. His oddness had extinguished the spark, but not his concern for Emory.

  Tyler was a nurturer, had always been. Growing up, his mom confided in him, even if it wasn’t appropriate. He welcomed being a kid-sized shoulder to cry on. He’d listened patiently as his mom described her dreams of another life or complained how her husband didn’t ‘see’ her anymore, how she was taken for granted, little more than a glorified maid.

  And he worried about Emory. Seeing him tonight had been a shock. He reminded him of Travis Bickle, the character Robert De Niro had played in Taxi Driver, especially after Bickle had shaved his head and gone full-bore crazy. “You lookin’ at me?” Tyler could still picture the iconic scene in the mirror from the film.

  Was Emory in danger of going over the edge?

  Tyler turned back around and headed for the front door of Emory’s building. He needed to not only make sure Emory was all right, but also to let him know there was someone there for him, someone who cared.

  It was the least Tyler could do.

  He walked up to the intercom to the right of the front door, found Emory’s name, thankfully, on the directory, and buzzed him.

  There was no response to the buzz, so Tyler pushed the button again, leaning a bit longer this time on the button.

  Still…nothing.

  He jabbed at the button a few times, knowing it was useless, and then turned to walk away. He bet he could find Cole still down on Halsted. And if not Cole, a Mr. Right Now, to round out his evening in at least a physically satisfying way. He shrugged. It was the way of the world, how his life really was these days.

  As he neared the end of the awning and the sidewalk proper, he heard the click of a door behind him. He turned quickly, thinking maybe he could slip inside and try knocking on Emory’s door.

  But it was Emory himself who stood there, a silhouette backlit by the light in the lobby behind him. “What are you doing here?” Emory’s voice rode out, ghostly, on the damp night air.

  Tyler froze. What am I doing here, anyway? Do I really need to see this guy again? Do I want to make myself vulnerable? The answer to his questions must have been a yes because Tyler lifted his lips in his most concerned smile and started back toward Emory.

  “I was on my way home.” Tyler moved close to Emory, until they were face-to-face. “No. That’s a lie. I wasn’t ‘in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.’ When I saw you at Sidetrack, it made me worry.” Tyler searched Emory’s eyes for some sign of understanding, but his face stayed slack, impassive. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Worry? Why?”

  Tyler shivered. He cocked his head a little. “Do you think maybe I could come in? It’s chilly out here.”

  Emory glanced into the lobby behind him, as though someone might be lurking there, watching them. But it was empty. Still, the hesitation prompted him to ask, “You’re alone, right?”

  That made Emory smile, but it was bitter. A
nd the smile didn’t rise to meet his eyes. His gaze was as dead a shark’s.

  Are you sure you want to go inside?

  “Always alone. Naturally.” The bitter smile stayed put.

  Tyler was torn. Should I just admit this was a mistake, turn around and head for the L? He acknowledged this course of action would be a relief. But then a better, more nurturing part of himself spoke to him. Or should I be the friend I came here to be?

  In the end, he decided to be a friend. “You seemed so different when I saw you. It made me remember our good times together, Emory. It made me think back to our horrible work at Quality Investigations. It made me think of our movie nights.” Tyler smiled and felt the heat of a blush rise to his cheeks. “It made me think of a lot of things.” He shrugged. “I guess I’m just concerned for you and wanted to see if you were okay.”

  “At almost one o’clock in the morning?”

  “Is it that late?”

  “Yes.”

  Tyler stood with him for a minute or two of painful and awkward silence. “Please. Let me come up.” He grinned. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

  That made Emory laugh. He stepped aside so Tyler could come in. He led him to the utility stairs at the back of the building to go up.

  Once they were in the apartment, Tyler was stunned at the change. The living room, dining room, and the partial glimpse into Emory’s bedroom revealed a kind a Spartan cleanliness. The floors looked scrubbed and had a dull sheen from the single illuminated floor lamp in the living room corner. The air had a scent of Murphy’s Oil Soap to it. There wasn’t a thing out of place.

  Other than the cleanliness of the place, only one thing had changed. Now, above Emory’s desk against a wall in the dining room, there was a cork board. On it were newspaper clippings. Lots and lots of clippings.

  Every single one of them was about Jeffrey Dahmer. The headlines jumped out at Tyler, ghoulish, turning his stomach.

  Body Parts Litter Apartment.

  Grisly Anatomy of a Crime.

  Dahmer Sane.