Unraveling

by Rick R. Reed

  “Not to mention modesty?”

  “That too.” He points to the glass. “That’s Maker’s Mark, from my home state of Kentucky. I take it neat, as any real Southern gentleman would.”

  I nod. “Right.” I hurry to the bar and order another Miller Lite from the dark-bearded bartender and, of course, a Maker’s Mark—a double. I feel curiously unburdened and am not quite sure I understand why.

  The bartender sets the drinks down in front of me and takes my cash. When he offers me my change, I tell him to keep it, even though it’s way more than twenty percent.

  “Thanks, cutie,” he says and winks. He adroitly sweeps the change off the bar and stuffs it into the pocket of his way-too-tight Levi 501s. I don’t have the nerve to ask him if the bulge in them is real, or a sock—perhaps one of the ones that we can never seem to find a mate for after drying. As I pick up the glass and my bottle, he leans close and says, “Don’t let Stephen take you for all your worth.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. He may be confined to a wheelchair, but he’s nimble where it counts.”

  “Okay.”

  I walk back to Stephen and tell myself the bartender sounded good-natured in his warning. I shouldn’t worry too much about my new friend.

  Or should I?

  “Thank you, kind sir.” Stephen takes the glass from me. After a sip, he wipes his mouth with his hand. “Mother’s milk.”

  I chuckle.

  He points. “Got you to smile.”

  “You could probably get me to do a lot of things.” Really, he could. There’s something charming about him, yes, but I would take it a step further and say that another c word applies—charismatic.

  “Oh really?” He wiggles his eyebrows a la Groucho Marx. “You’re flirting with me, and you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Randy.”

  “Is that your name? Or how you’re feeling?”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  “Of course. In which case, it’s a very apt name indeed.”

  We drink and are quiet for a moment. But, as expected, Stephen pipes up first. “About the flirting—” he begins.

  I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into.

  “Yes?” I take a long swallow of beer and eye the door.

  “Although you’re a very charming fellow, with a pretty face and a bitching bod, flirting will get you nowhere with me.”

  “Oh? I thought you were hitting on me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, dear boy. I was simply being friendly to someone I perceived might need a little attention. See, believe it or not, I know how being in a bar alone can feel awkward.”

  “You do? You seem so at ease.”

  “Enough with the flattery. I wasn’t always so comfortable, and it isn’t just because I’m in a wheelchair.” He gives me a different kind of smile, one imbued with warmth. I see the kindness as a glimmer in his brown eyes, even behind the lenses of his tortoiseshell glasses. “Believe it or not, I’d bet just about every fella in here has been in your shoes at one time or another. Scared. Feeling out of place. Wondering—do I really belong here?” He smiles up at me, and it makes me feel singled out, but in a good way. “You’re not as special as you think.” And even those words, which could be construed as insulting, seem kind.

  “I’m not, am I.” It’s not a question. All at once, I realize he’s right. Everyone in here tonight probably had to take a few tentative steps into going out into the community at first. They, too, may have had no friends or support when they first came out—only the need to be with other people like them, even if they paradoxically believed these folks were nothing like them.

  “We’re all different,” Stephen says and takes another sip. “And we’re all alike. Like lamps.”

  “Lamps?”

  “Are you a parrot?”

  I draw myself up with indignation. “I am a mynah bird, sir. I’ll thank you to remember the distinction.”

  That gets him to chuckle. “Lamps because we’re all different. Some are table lamps, some desk, some floor, some night-lights…but we all have the same light inside of us.”

  “We’re all looking for the same thing?”

  “I didn’t say that. But yeah, we all came here to step out of a world that might reject us, even hate us, and to step into a place where we know, even a little bit, we’re seen and accepted for who we are. Safe. That’s at the heart of why everyone’s here. I think, anyway. And take my opinion, add a fiver, and you can buy yourself another beer.”

  We both laugh and quietly observe the crowd for a while.

  “Are you married?” Stephen asks after a time.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “As obvious as the band on the third finger of your left hand.” That cracks him up. Before I can reply, he says, “Even if you’d slid that ring off and tucked it into your pocket, it would be obvious, darling. Now, you have the right clothes on. You’re obsessively neat, but your fear sets you apart. I’ve been hanging out in bars long enough to spot a married man when I see one.” He lowers his eyelids a bit. “There’s something furtive about them. And they’re not as rare as you might think.”

  “Yes. I’m married.” There’s no use in denying it. He’s already seen my simple gold band. “Got a wife up in Rogers Park.”

  “Kids?”

  I think of little Henry, on his back in his twin bed, slumbering, his thumb stuffed into his mouth, even though we’re trying to get him to stop that before he goes into first grade. What will he think of his old man once he’s old enough to understand? Will he shun me? The thought is almost enough to make me excuse myself from Stephen and head out into the warm spring night.

  But all I’ve done, my whole life, is run away. Maybe it stops here. Tonight. “I have a little boy. His name’s Henry.”

  “Henry. How old-fashioned. I would imagine you’re feeling some guilt, along with the self-consciousness.”

  “You’d be right. Can we talk about something else?”

  He ignores the question. “Do you have a picture?”

  I debate. But in the end my pride as a dad wins out. I pull out my wallet and show him a snapshot I took of Henry last summer on Fargo beach. He’s standing knee-deep in the freezing water of Lake Michigan, wearing shorts, a striped T-shirt, and a brave smile. His eyes are wide. His nose is sunburned, and his dark curly hair is caught in a breeze.

  Stephen gently takes my wallet from my hands. He lifts his glasses up to his forehead to peer down at my son and smiles. He hands me back my wallet. “He’s got your nose.”

  I grin, flattered.

  “Poor kid.”

  The smile disappears.

  I decide I have nothing to lose, so I tell him, “He’s a big part of the reason why, at age thirty-two, I’m out in a gay bar for only the second time.”

  He nods. “When did you realize you were gay?”

  I don’t think. An image pops into my head. I’m in my bedroom back in East Liverpool, Ohio. The little two-bedroom house I grew up in faced one of the busier streets in town. It’s summer, hot, and the curtains at my window hang still, drooping in the humidity. A box fan is in the window at the top of the stairs, rotating noisily, doing nothing more than displacing the ninety degree air.

  It’s tough to sleep.

  On our busy street, boys hitchhike. They’re out there at all hours of the day and night. And my twelve-year-old self likes to watch them. They’re usually teenagers or maybe early twenties. Young, anyway. Bad boys who get in cars with strangers, heedless.

  They make me feel weird, low in my gut. The feeling is both pleasurable and nauseating at the same time.

  Tonight is no exception. Across the street is a blue-jeaned young man with shoulder-length, stringy blond hair. He’s wearing an old, faded T-shirt with the sleeves cut off so much that one can see the smooth skin of not only his arms, but his sides, a bit of chest, a nipple when he moves the right way. The streetlight above gives his skin a yellowish
cast. His cigarette glows in the dark.

  I’m mesmerized.

  Suddenly, the spell shatters.

  Because of the fan, I haven’t heard my father creep up the stairs. All at once, he’s behind me and then squatting next to me. Smiling, he peers out the same window and asks, “What are you looking at?”

  But there’s no need to respond. The answer is obvious, out there in the dark, where the handsome bad boy stands in a pool of light, smoking and hoping for a ride.

  My father’s smile disappears. He takes me in, almost as if he’s never seen me before. He looks outside once more, perhaps hoping that something else, something other than a sexy, dangerous boy, has caught my attention. But all is still out there—the same houses, the same cracked, water-stained retaining wall that keeps the tree-covered hill above our street from washing down into it.

  Quietly, he stands up and then slips away. I hear the bathroom door, across from my room, close.

  Heat burns my face, and I scurry back into bed, pulling the sweat-damped sheet up to my chin. I’m not alone in my twin bed. Shame, big and imposing, spoons with me.

  My father knows.

  A week after that, he suggests we swap bedrooms, my parents and me. That way, I’m at the back of the house, where my window will look on to our own backyard and that of our neighbor’s.

  “I probably knew when I was around twelve,” I finally answer Stephen.

  Stephen shakes his head. “So why wait twenty years to come out? Why get married?”

  “Oh Stephen, don’t you know? There’s a huge difference between knowing something and accepting it.”

  Stephen thinks about that for a second, and then he nods. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I get it.”

  We don’t speak for a time. And it’s not long before a guy approaches us. He’s stunningly handsome, with the kind of Nordic good looks that remind me of Robert Redford, perhaps in The Way We Were. Or maybe a young Nick Nolte. His blue eyes are crystalline, like frozen water, and the lashes are too long for a man, but they frame his eyes so beautifully as to be hypnotic.

  His body, in faded jeans, tight white T, and cowboy boots, is taut, lean, well-muscled.

  He’s one of my filthiest fantasies, come to swaggering, grinning life.

  And he’s approaching me! I nervously assemble my features into a smile and find myself unable to meet his gaze.

  He stops and looks down at Stephen. I quickly realize the mistake I’ve made. “I was wondering where you were.” He leans over to plant a quick peck on Stephen’s lips, then straightens to smile at me. “I hope he’s not being too annoying. I’m Rory.” He extends his hand and I shake it.

  “The old ball and chain,” Stephen mumbles, but grins.

  “This is your—” I stop, flabbergasted. What do people say these days? Lover? Boyfriend? Friend?

  Stephen smirks. “Yes, this is my beloved. My one and only. My soul mate.” He eyes me with mock menace and then jabs a finger hard enough into my ribs to make me gasp. “And don’t look so damn surprised.”

  Rory smiles. “I’ll have you know that I was the one doing the chasing in this relationship. And he wasn’t easy to catch.” They both laugh.

  “I played hard to get for six long months, unheard of in the gay world.” He eyes Rory and the love there is plain. “That was seven years ago. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

  I’m embarrassed because I’d made a horrible assumption—that this wheelchair-bound man and this hunk could have never been a couple. I’m ashamed of myself, and I hurt because I’m willing to bet other people draw the same conclusion that I have. Now that the prejudicial scales have fallen from my eyes, I can see Stephen and Rory for what they are—two men in love.

  And, for maybe the first time, I see that as a beautiful thing: real, and not something to be hidden away in the shadows.

  “I’d like to buy both of you guys a drink. How ’bout it?”

  “Oh, this one here’d let you buy him drinks all night,” Rory says. “But we need to get home. We have a shop to run, and weekends are our busiest time. We have to be up at the crack of dawn.”

  “Dawn is not a woman,” Stephen adds. It takes me a second to catch on to the joke, and when I do, I roll my eyes. “But next time?”

  “Sure.” The bar doesn’t seem like such a foreign place anymore. I’m excited that I’ve made my first friends even though I know I may never see them again.

  “Will there be a next time?” I ask, betraying my lack of confidence.

  Stephen cocks his head. “Of course, darling, aren’t you having us over to meet the wife and kid?”

  I go cold and realize that my skin has probably gone pure white.

  “Joke. But Rory and I would love to invite you to dinner sometime. Maybe next week? Wouldn’t we, Rory?”

  Rory, whose focus has been on the TV screen where a Janet Jackson music video plays, looks back at Stephen. “Huh?”

  “I was just telling Randy here that we’d like to have him over for dinner sometime. He’s a carnivore, darling, so you can make him your cabbonade.” He glances up at me. “You eat meat, right?”

  “Like it’s going out of style.” I don’t know what cabbonade is, but the prospect of being invited over for dinner sends a frisson of joy through me.

  “Then, if you’re free, maybe a night next week? We live up north a ways, on Marine Drive.”

  I nod. “I’d love to.”

  “Give him a card, Rory.”

  Rory gropes in the pocket of his tight-fitting jeans and pulls out a simple white card with black, raised lettering.

  Stephen Link

  Rory Fitzanko

  (312) 555-9608

  “Keep that in a safe place, and give us a call once you’ve had a chance to consult your calendar.” He winks. “And your wife.”

  They start together toward the door. Stephen calls out, “Although I regret to say the invitation is only for you, darling. Only for you.”

  “Nice meeting you,” I call out and watch them leave.

  After a moment, I attempt to take a swig of beer and find my bottle is empty. I decide it’s time to go home. Maybe I didn’t get lucky tonight, but perhaps I found an even more important kind of intimacy—friendship.

  And honestly, the prospect of getting lucky is still a scary thing. But I can’t deny that it’s becoming more and more tantalizing. And yet, I can’t imagine a quick and casual sexual encounter. Most guys, straight or gay, seem to relish the prospect of such a thing. No strings. Just hot sex and then—see ya.

  Not me. I’m cursed or blessed because I’m old-fashioned—a romantic. I lost my straight virginity with Violet. No, not on our wedding night, but we didn’t do anything until we both knew we were in a committed relationship.

  I want what Stephen and Rory appear to have. Right now, it seems like wishing I’ll win the lottery, though. Between my own nervousness and discomfort with myself and the fast and loose playing field of gay bars, I’m beginning to see a relationship as some kind of holy grail.

  I walk up to the bar and set my empty on it. I smile a good night at the bartender who winks at me. The wink makes me shiver a little deep down.

  I shoulder my way through the crowd and head out into the night.

  The air is a bit colder, but I’m warm enough in my flannel. Halsted is curiously quiet, and when I look up, I can actually make out a few stars. They’re brave enough to shine, despite Chicago’s light pollution, and I think there’s a message in there for me somewhere, but my brain’s too clouded by fatigue and beer to figure out what it is.

  I head south, toward the Addison stop, even though Irving Park might be just a tiny bit closer. By going south, I’ll pass more of my newfound brethren in their native habitat. Maybe a potential Prince Charming is also heading out of a bar, making his way to the L stop. Perhaps we’ll eye each other shyly on the street, then hurry our separate ways. When we get to the L platform, we’ll recognize each other and smile. At the last minute, one of us will r
ush to get on the same car with the other. As the car rocks its way north, we’ll play a game of looking and then looking away, both electrified by the attraction ramping up between us. He’s got a shaved head, gold wire-rim glasses, and a runner’s body. He’s clutching a dog-eared and broken spine copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses. He rises to leave the train at Morse, which is only one stop before my own. I get up and follow, unsure of what my next move will be but thinking I could ask him about the book. Maybe I could tell him I tried to read it as an English major in college, but it all sailed over my head, making me yearn for the literary comfort food of someone like Stephen King.

  I shake the fantasy from my head, fearing it’s too sweet of a story to ever come true.

  As I walk slowly, I consider practicing the swiveling head flirting I’m beginning to notice. I see it more and more now, and, sometimes, it’s even directed at me, which makes the fire rise to my cheeks. I think about getting home too. Creeping into Henry’s room and just watching him sleep—few pleasures are more sublime.

  And then something new captures my interest. I hear voices, raised in argument, as I near a dark bowling alley parking lot.

  “You used me and tossed me away like a fuck rag.”

  A line like that does cause one to perk up one’s ears, doesn’t it? I mean, you just don’t hear it on the Golden Girls even if Blanche might say it. The voice saying the line is screechy, a little high, teetering on the edge of hysteria. There’s also a crazy kind of threatening surliness to it that reminds me of Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

  I step under the shadow of a store awning and peer around the corner to find the source of the voice.

  Caught between the hulking silhouettes of parked cars and a graffiti-laden brick wall are two men. I can’t really make out much detail, but they’re both of the burly variety, broad in the beams as my grandma would say. Bears, as I’m learning to call them.

  The other guy answers and sounds more reasonable. “Dude! Calm down.”

  I wonder if anyone in the history of the world has ever calmed down when being told to.

  “Fuck you!” The other guy screams back, proving my point. I have to wonder if this encounter will come to blows, and not the kind most people think of as occurring in the dark shadows of Halsted Street byways.